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/ 


A 

Brother’s Sacrifice 

Adapted from the Works of A. Juengst 

BY ALOYSIUS J. EIFEL 



TECHNY, ILLINOIS 

SOCIETY OFTHE DIVINE WORD 





COPYRIGHT, 1909, 

BY THE SOCIETY OF THE DIVINE WORD 



©CI.A253783 



Chapter I. 

HOT and sultry evening in the 
month of August. The sun has dis- 
appeared from the horizon and 
sends forth his fiery darts from 
behind the dark pine trees covering the 
dune, behind which he has just gone down 
in ruddy splendor. Streaks of dazzling light 
traverse the western sky and fire the fleecy 
clouds that swim in the glow of evening. The 
twilight tints of mingled gold and purple quiv- 
er in soft reflection over the wide heath lying 
between the wood lots of the Oak Farm and 
the stubble fields of the Meadow Home, which 
now ripples with the purplish sheen of masses 
of heather-bloom. The lingering light gleams 
upon the stems of the straggling wide-spread- 
ing pines, and dips with a mysterious shimmer 
among the darkling reeds of the marsh ponds, 
which here and there interrupt the uniform 
expanse of the moorland. 

On the margin of one of these pools, seat- 
ed against a sand drift of considerable height. 



might be seen the aged shepherd of the Oak 
Farm, Nicholas Hinnerk, merged in absorbing 
revery. Now and again the clever, vigilant 
spitz by his side, familiar with his master’s 
every mood, plucks him by the long, blue-gray 
coat and with a sharp yelp points to the flock 
which, piteously bleating, stands huddled by 
the water’s edge. But Nicholas is dead to the 
warnings of his faithful companion. Motion- 
less he squats, his knit-work dangling idly in 
his hands, his wooden crook tilted against the 
slope, while with a dull, gloating eye he looks 
into space and traces the gruesome visions 
which emerge upon his mystic gaze. 

For yonder across the plain, where the thick 
alder brush hides the murmuring brook, out 
from his covert steals the brewing wizard of 
the heath and begins to stir his nightly caldron. 
Thicker and ever more quickly rise the lurid 
clouds, rolling in dark volutions from the dank 
copse, hovering out - over the silent plain, 
wreathing their serpentine coils around the 
tremulous birches, and gradually involving the 
entire moor in a mysterious shroud of l' o ht and 
gloom. The shadowy firs begin to wail in the 
rising wind as the winged spectral forms glide 
and hover and gather round, to weave a magic 
circle which holds the glaring eyes of the old 


man spellbound, and which might chill the 
veins of any other than the hardy shepherd 
seer. 

Yes, there is the ghost of the cruel landlord 
who all the days of his mortal life fed on the 
blood of the poor and the tears of helpless 
women and children, and who now, repulsed 
from heaven and disgorged from hell, is doom- 
ed to wander for hopeless ages through heath 
and lonely moor. Close upon his heels follows 
the woeful proprietor ofWendhof, panting and 
groaning beneath the crushing weight of ter- 
minal stones, which he was used to move with 
covetous lianas. A thousand times he has 
hurled his unbearable load into the deepest 
pool of the moorland, but again he is 

goaded on by the spur of Justice to shoulder 
his sore burden and stagger on and on in his 
hopeless career. 

A few croaking ravens, hastening to their 
eyrie upon the gallows hill, knell the apparition 
of the grim, shag-headed Matthew, who rob- 
bed and slew a peaceable wayfarer and atoned 
for it by the hangman’s blade ; and still he runs 
blood, and still the keen edge rankles in his 
altered flesh. 

A brace of female forms now emerge from 
the coiling fumes: there, a ghastly, passion- 


8 






worn face, with a pair of fierce, burning eyes, 
— the wild Ilsabim, who seasoned the poison 
cup for her own son in order to ma way for 
the courtship of the young master of Rothen- 
berg; then, the mild, mournful vision of poor 
Madeline, whose faithless lover married the 
wealthy miller’s daughter, and next day drew 
from out the suddenly clogging . aterwheels 
the lifeless form of his deserted fiancee. 

Old Nicholas Ilinnerk knew i all, those 
shadowy phantoms, which upon the evening 
mists rode over the darkling heath. For more 
than sixty years he watched them, as today, 
weave their mournful dance over the lone, de- 
serted waste, — ever since, as a boy of twelve, 
he drove his charge for the first time at night- 
fall into the fallow land. Nor did he fear 
them. His familiarity had obbed them of 
the terror with which they inspired the other 
denizens of the neighborhood. It was a brave 
heart that dared venture into this haunted re- 
gion after sundown; saturated by its weird 
legend, people shunned it and would bless 
themselves and hasten their pace if their busi- 
ness led them that way. But Nicholas would 
only gaze at his specters, and pore over them 
with a curious interest, nodding now and then, 
as if in assent to what he read in that myste- 
rious book. 


Again and again the dog plucks his master 
by the sleeve; more piteously pleads the timid 
flock; but Nicholas heeds not the importunity 
of the dog, nor hears the bleating of the sheep. 

On a sudden he starts to his feet. His 
glaring eyes seem ready to spring from their 
sockets, his white hair rises rigidly on his head, 
and a painful cry of alarm escapes from his 
quivering lips. 

“What was it?” he gasps, dropping his out- 
stretched arms. “A glaring flash of crimson 
light over the houses of the Oak Farm. Sta- 
bles and outhouses seemed for a moment wrap- 
ped in an angry flame. I cannot be mistaken. 
I saw it to plainly, how it shot up and blazed 
against the dusky sky. — But what does it 
mean? Something terrible, something awful, 
no doubt; but what? A conflagration? — or 
is it a portent of death? Does the fatal omen 
point to one of the children of the house? to 
the mother ? or — God fore fend — is it the doom 
of my master himself? — If I only knew! If 
I only knew !” 

The ominous soliloquy was cut short by the 
sound of a cheery voice belonging to a tall mas- 
culine figure, whom the slighted dog, yelping 
and fawning, ran to greet with evident pleas- 


ure. 


“What, you here yet, Nicholas? so late 
upon the heather?” 

“And why not?” returned the shepherd, 
fretted with the untimely intrusion. “In the 
sixty years of my service in the pasture not an 
animal has come to harm.” 

“No, no, that isn't what I mean,” put in 
the other, in a conciliatory tone, and approach- 
ing nearer. “I am only surprised that you 
yourself have not yet sought the fold and the 
cozy corner; this fog, you know — ” 

“The fog ! — fog, indeed !” echoed the ex- 
cited old man, and added with a searching, half 
sarcastic, air, “Is that all, Joseph? did you 
see nothing more?” 

“What should it be? — Do you mean that 
flash of lightning yonder over the woods ?” 

“O, you blind ones, you hard of heart ! To 
call it lightning when the heavens hang out 
their boding signals for the warning of mor- 
tal men ! Fog ! when the wizards are abroad 
and conjure up the spirits of the past to wand- 
er over the heath !” Then, drawing closer, he 
added with an air of mysteriousness, “I have 
seen them again today, Joseph ; did you really 
see nothing?” 

“Nothing, Nicholas,” said the other, with a 
smile, “you know I’m not a Sunday child.” 


“It is true; and the more’s the pity, Joseph. 
You have ever been the lad of my heart; and 
to you of all men I should have been happy 
to bequeath the treasures of my secret lore. 
But you are right, to be able to see what I see 
one must be born on a Sunday, amidst the 
ringing of the noonday bells. — Here, Spitz !” 

Taking up his crook, he slowly rose from 
his place on the ground; while the alert dog 
rounded up the flock, bringing in the strag- 
glers, and rousing those that lay couched a- 
mong the tufts of heather grass. 

“Now, see here, Joseph, — ” 

“Well?” 

“Well, no; never mind,” mumbled the old 
man, with visible disgust pictured in his sullen 
features “It’s no matter.” And he turned 
again toward the scene which was the object 
of his anxiety. 

“Then, good night, old friend ; and if your 
cot out there gets uncomfortable tonight, come 
over to the house. Your faithful Spitz will be 
able to take care of the fold alone for a night.” 

“What ! you would have me desert my post 
and betray my colors! Then you don’t know 
an old veteran. Remember, I have had my 
Leipsic and Waterloo, and have learned to 
stand by my charge under quite different trials. 


My lad, you do not know me; you give me 
pain to speak so lightly. Alas, we have come 
upon evil days! No wonder, then, that prod- 
igies and omens can mark the face of earth 
and heaven, and not a man to heed the voice 
of the Powers. Come, Spitz !” 

And shaking his head with a stern frown 
for the wickedness of the world in general and 
the perverseness of his young friend in partic- 
ular, the aged visionary, without another 
word, made for that part of the fallow grounds 
where the fold awaited the drowsy sheep. 

“Good night, Nicholas !” came once more 
in a friendly voice from the sand drift. 

“Good night!” he grumbled sulkily, with- 
out turning to look at his departing friend. 

While the young man with a nimble tread 
traversed the heath in the opposite direction 
and was soon lost to sight and hearing, the 
other recommenced his musing and mumbling - 
in the former strain. 

“If I might only find the solution of this 
mystery ! It did not point to his house yonder 
in the fields ; it was more to the right. It flared 
along the oak wood and over the farm houses 
and blazed blood-red like the fire of the doom. 
An awful omen ! First those infernal specters 
on the moor, and immediately upon their dis- 


appearance this blazing beacon in the skies. 
Now, to complete the doom only those two 
bloody fellows yet;” and he looked around 
with an ominous glance, if he might behold 
the blood-stained phantoms of the two broth- 
ers locked in deadly combat. “If they are 
walking the night, then there is mishief enough 
on the wing, and God help the man on 
whom it lights !” 

Thus lost in gloomy reflections he trudged 
toward the enclosure. The care of the sheep 
was left to the faithful dog and fortunately 
he was equal to his task, or possibly for the 
first time in his career the old shepherd, in spite 
of himself, would have found one or the other 
of the benighted animals missing next morn- 
ing. But Spitz had an eye to everything and 
was careful, in the increasing darkness, that 
not one of the flock should stray from the se- 
cure pathway between the marshbeds or lose 
itself among the dense brushwood along their 
margins. 

When at length Nicholas Hinnerk had seen 
his charge safely quartered for the night and 
assigned his trusty guard to the usual straw 
pallet, he did not at once retire to his snug 
shepherd’s cot, as was his wont, but sat him- 
self upon a terminal stone of the adiacent field 


and gazed upon the starlit sky. But however 
he might pore and ponder and torture his poor 
old brain, he could not satisfy himself with the 
result of his reflections. 


Chapter II. 

Another sun was sloping down the western 
sky; man and beast, sweltering beneath the 
day’s burden, welcomed the gentle approach 
of evening. From dawn to eventide the 
scythes of the Oak Farm were swinging and 
swishing through the teeming wheat fields, and 
the heavy grain fell in golden heaps around 
the reapers. 

Joachim, the proprieter of the farm and 
redoubtable burgomaster of the neighborhood, 
strutted through the stubble with a compla- 
cent smile. He was a powerful man. The 
tough fibre of old Saxony, as well as his own 
hardy and imperious temperament, were visi- 
ble in every sinew of his robust frame and 
every line of his hard, weather-tanned fea- 
tures. His sturdy personage certainly had a 
suggestion of prosperity as he moved through 
his rich fields and forecast the proceeds of the 
year’s yield. 

“If wheat rises to a dollar and a half the 
bushel, which is very probable owing to the 
heavy damages from excessive rains in many 
neighboring crops, then I can easily count on 
a thousand dollars. Ha ! master Joachim, 


you’re a proper fellow; you are as rich as a 
lord and cap stand up with the best of them. 
A round thousand bright, clean cash makes a 
goodly little purse in these days, and with the 
neat sum laid aside before it would be more 
than enough to buy out bodily that wretched 
nest yonder, which is an eyesore to me and 
stands there in sheer mockery of my ambition.” 

. With these words he shook his brawny fist 
at a lowly, thatched cottage in the midst of a 
clump of overhanging willows, which, with its 
several acres of tilth around it, encroached on 
his land and cut out a pretty slice from his 
sweeping fields. 

“If Joseph would only give up his stubborn 
head. But he will not sell it to please me. He 
knows that as long as that disreputable shanty 
with its wretched potato patches cuts up my 
fields and mars the fair face of my possess- 
ions, I can’t thoroughly enjoy my fortune. 
The fool insists that the attachment for his 
uncle who left him the pittance, will not permit 
him to give it up. But I know better, old boy ; 
you think it gives you a fine chance to flout me 
and check my ambition, do you? Then you 
don’t know me. I’ll have it, right or wrong, 
and, willing nilling, out you must! — If I only 
knew how to go at it so as not Yes; there 


would be a way — But hush ! that must not be ; 
he is your brother, your only brother.” 

While the master of the farm indulged 
in these amiable reflections and walked about, 
bestowing here a word of encouragement, 
there of rebuke, upon the still laboring reapers, 
he saw the object of his displeasure pass 
through the straggling edge of the woodland 
toward his modest home. Joseph, the younger 
brother of the formidable magistrate bore 
tokens of the same good old Saxon stock, the 
same oaken fibre ran through his hardy make- 
up. But over the firm, manly features there 
lay an air of kindly benevolence and honest 
candor, and his clear, blue eyes looked out 
upon the world with almost childlike simplic- 
ity and frankness. His amiable qualities had 
made him the favorite of the household and 
won the hearts of the subjects. Joachim, as 
the elder, commanded their obedience, but 
Joseph swayed their affections. Where Joseph 
would ask their service with gentleness, the 
other would thrust out a command; and the 
greater their promptness to please his imperi- 
ous disposition, the more their attachment 
turned from him to the mild Joseph. Joachim 
was also the natural heir of the estate, and in 
the overweening consciousness of his superi- 
* brother’s sacrifice 2 




ority he would miss no occasion to assert his 
rights; and in the financial disputes which 
arose between them his selfishness and profes- 
sional shrewdness would always be sure to se- 
cure the lion’s share to himself. Joseph could 
not cope with his brother nor was he inspired 
by kindred worldly ambitions ; so he remained 
a hard-working tiller of the soil. 

But he was satisfied with his portion in life. 
He possessed that unpretending disposition and 
habit of contentment which are in themselves 
wealth, and that happy sensibility for the beau- 
ties of nature which made the whole world 
his own. Wherever he moved he recognized 
that bounteous Hand which held out to him 
the most precious gifts of life; for he was free 
from that envious, covetous spirit which con- 
tracts the wide and beautiful world to the nar- 
row circle of a small and narrow heart. Be- 
sides, the education he had received at the 
neighboring city, and which scarcely left an im- 
pression on the harsher nature of his brother, 
had elevated his mind, refined his sensibilities, 
and broadened his mental vision. 

As he now walked through the cool, whis- 
pering woods, all things met his gaze with fa- 
miliar greetings. His eye rested with pleasure 
on the gigantic forms of the lofty oaks, those 


eternal emblems of strength and endurance, 
with their wide-spreading, rugged branches 
and their graceful garlands of shining foliage. 
These groves of hardy oaks were the pride of 
his race, and for centuries the family of 
the Eichhofs had cultivated them with a sort 
of family affection and interwoven their as- 
sociations with the history of the house. Joseph 
looked upon these living antiquities with a 
similar interest and sympathy as one might 
feel for animate companions, and his reflec- 
tions were mingled with feelings of reverence 
and generous pride. “My great grandfather 
planted them here,” he said ; “more than a cen- 
tury of suns and snows has weathered their 
hardy grain, and who knows how long they 
shall lift their royal heads to the skies when we 
are gone forever, these lusty playfellows of 
the wrestling storms.” 

Leaving the grove behind, he crossed the 
adjacent field with ever a cheerful word for 
the reapers, and made for the little cottage 
among the willows Arriving on the border of 
the field, he paused in a shady nook where 
stood an ancient cross of stone, backed by a 
green hedge of box thorn and overshadowed 
by two broad linden-trees. 

This rural shrine by the hedge-row marked 


the common boundary line of the adjoining es- 
tates of the two brothers. The sculptured image 
of the Redeemer was old and discolored, crum- 
bling under the steady decay of rain and frost ; 
but it still bore the traces of a master’s hand, 
and there hung about it an air of peaceful re- 
pose and serene majesty. The soothing at- 
mosphere of the little bower and the sweet 
appeal of the sacred image endeared the place 
to the good and simple peasant folk, and many 
a fervent prayer rose on its whispering breezes. 
Overlooking the field as it did, it seemed to the 
people to bless the work of their hands and 
impart strength for the burdens of life. On 
the face of the large pedestal was the remnant 
of a graven inscription, but its characters were 
weatherworn and defaced, so that it was im- 
possible to decipher the original meaning. The 
efforts of antiquaries and connoisseurs to con- 
strue the remaining fragments proved fruit- 
less. But there went a tradition among the 
peasants of the neighborhood, that the monu- 
ment had been placed there by two sons of the 
house, who had fought to the blood over the 
right of inheritance and afterward, by way of 
atonement, erected this sacred image, the work 
of a celebrated artist. Nicholas Hinnerk, the 
old shepherd and first authority on the tradi- 




tionary lore of the neighborhood, vouched for 
the truth of this belief with the firmness and 
sincerity of personal conviction; and main- 
tained that the brothers at times still hovered 
about the hedge at dead of night, as he him- 
self had seen them, and that this was always 
the case when a disaster threatened the in- 
cumbent of the estate. However this might be, 
the venerable relic of former times was an 
object of devotion to the inmates of the farm, 
and with Joseph in particular it was a beauti- 
ful habit to stop there for a few moments on 
leaving his home or returning there. 

As he rested in the grateful shade of the 
mighty lindens and imbibed a comfort to body 
and soul in the presence of that emblem of 
solace, memories of the past stole upon his 
quiet and reflective mind. That place was as- 
sociated in his Christian mind with some of 
the most stirring experiences of his life, and 
its solitude was familiar with his most hidden 
feelings ; and from these associations he had 
drawn comfort in sorrow and strength in dif- 
ficulties and distress. Refreshed by the cool 
and silence, he passed on to his own grounds 
and walked toward the cottage that greeted him 
familiarly f from among the waving willows. 
Walking along the rail fence which divided the 


field from the wood lot, an old wooden bench 
on the other side caught his eye. It stood be^ 
tween two shading beech-trees, a thick under- 
growth of hazel had crept close round the de- 
serted spot and the gnarled raspberry vines 
trailed their supple branches over the seat. 

“The old bench !” said Joseph, musingly, 
and checked his hasty step. “Alas, I had al- 
most forgotten the place — yes, and those old 
days !”, 

Following a sudden impulse, he overleapt 
the fence and made his way through the tan- 
gled shrubbery. He cast a searching glance 
around the place and lighted on a tree whose 
bark was scarred with a few rude letters, al- 
most obliterated by the swelling rind and en- 
circled by the rambling suggestion of a heart. 
At the sight, a melancholy smile quivered on 
the lips of the strong young man, and he sighed 
with suppressed emotion. He was gazing up- 
on the living symbol of a dead past, of a dead 
youth; in that narrow circle was enclosed the 
history of his heart; those letters spelled the 
tragedy of his life, a tale of disappointment, 
grief, and sacrifice. 

The scythe which he had been wielding 
with a stout hand all day slid unawares from 
his shoulder. He passed his callous hand over 


his heated brow as if to banish from his mind 
the images that emerged from that circle on 
the tree, but they mocked his efforts at re- 
straint and crowded upon his reluctant mem- 
ory. He had thought to have overcome those 
youthful emotions in the duties and occupa- 
tions of a useful life, but the time and the 
scene had a strange power over his heart, the 
power we ourselves give to things and scenes 
when they are dear to us. 

It was an evening like the present one, 
when he had traced those boyish lines in the 
rind of the beech-tree ; an evening flushed with 
the warm glow of the waning sun, just as the 
heath was blushing with the bloom of autumn. 
The imperious and meddlesome Joachim was 
visiting with a neighboring farmer and making 
investigations in the science of agriculture, and 
the Oak Farm enjoyed an agreeable quiet. 
Joseph, but a stripling of twenty, went to the 
field with the reapers and vied with the most 
experienced hands in felling the yellow grain. 
But ever as the routine of his work brought 
him back to the vine-wreathed hedge of the 
Meadow Farm, his wistful eye would stray be- 
yond with a searching glance, and again return 
to the blade of his scythe with a shadow of 
disappointment. Many a time he had looked 




in vain; but at last, just as he despaired of the 
cheerful sight, out she popped from her re- 
treat, the sprightly, rosy maid, with the laugh- 
ing light in her soft brown eyes and the way- 
ward airy ringlets that sported about her 
brows, refusing to be modestly tucked away 
in the braid. The sunlight was brighter for 
that fresh, beaming face and that gleaming 
white apron, as she lightly stepped over the 
lawn with her water can, to moisten the linens 
that were spread in the sun for bleaching. 
Lithe and graceful as a fairy she hovered 
among the snowy sheets, dashing round the 
glittering spray of water, stooping here to pick 
off a stray leaf, there to smooth a ruffled edge, 
and anon tripping off to the spring at the foot 
of the slope, to replenish her can. 

Joseph followed the movements of the pret- 
ty creature with just a feeling of warm curios- 
ity, though he did not catch the occasional 
glances which stole through the sunny curls 
toward the hazel hedge as she stooped over 
her work ; they did not wait for him. But when 
her work was done and she lingered just a mo- 
ment, not knowing why, and stooped to pick 
a dandelion blossom which she had scarcely 
loved so much before, there came a pleasant 
“Good evening, Mariann !” in a low, soft voice, 




and in a voice more soft she answered, “Good 
evening, Joseph!” And then Joseph looked 
no more, but clutched his scythe with a harder 
gripe and with new vigor hewed down the 
toppling ears of grain, while Mariann slowly 
sauntered back to the house, not without turn- 
ing her pretty head once and again, and won- 
dering what he was thinking about. But Jo- 
seph hardly knew himself what he was think- 
ing or doing ; his heart was gay and noisy and 
his head was light with unwonted joy. With 
a cruel pleasure he cut down the last sheaf, 
and leaving his scythe on the spot, to the sur- 
prise of the maids who came after to bind the 
Wheat, hurried away through the wide fields. 
He hurried he knew not whither, but there 
was an invitation in the open fields and bound- 
less heath ; the sunset had never been so beauti- 
ful before; there was sweet company in the 
smile of the heather-bells, and the thrush and 
nightingale sang new songs to him. Returning 
home through the woods and coming upon the 
bench and the beech-trees, where he now stood, 
he could not resist the temptation to trace in 
the smooth rind the name which by unseen 
hand had been graven so deeply in his heart. 

Alas! that was long ago, and since then 
how things had changed! 


In the following winter an acute attack of 
pneumonia sent his father to a premature 
grave, and Joachim returned as heir to the 
estate, more haughty and domineering than 
ever in the consciousness of his new power. 
The patient and peaceable disposition of Jo- 
seph was often taxed to the utmost by the 
overbearing arrogance of his elder brother. 
Oftentimes when things seemed to grow un- 
bearable and even the mother’s pleadings might 
not appease the stark temper of the young 
master, Joseph, sorely vexed and despondent, 
would seek refuge with his old uncle in the 
cottage by the willows, or in the hut of the 
shepherd, the old friend of his childhood, 
or he would roam out into the fields and, 
dreaming in the shade of a hedgerow, seek a 
glimpse of her who had become the object of 
his fondest thoughts and ambitions. 

With a sense of relief to the whole house- 
hold it was learned that the hard master was 
summoned to headquarters for the legal term 
of military service; but the relief was of short 
duration. As proprietor of one of the largest 
farming establishments in Westphalia, he was 
declared indispensable to the industry and after 
a few days dismissed ; the younger brother was 
soon summoned in his place. Joseph went with 


a heavy heart. For three long years he was 
not to see the chosen one of his affections, nor 
had he the heart to avow his feelings and speak 
the word which might have bound her to him 
forever. How could he venture to propose to 
the wealthy farmer’s daughter? what had he 
to offer if he gained her love? how could he 
impose upon her sweet, simple nature? His 
uncle, it is true, had destined him heir to the 
little estate on which he lived, and it was 
sufficient to maintain a modest couple in ease 
and comfort ; but the uncle still held the prop- 
erty and might hold it for years to come; 
and Joseph was loath to tell the old man his 
intentions, which might have secured to him 
the possession and management of the little 
farm. 

So for poor Joseph, with his affectionate 
heart and delicate sensibilities, there was noth- 
ing left but to take his heart into his hands 
and soothe his young grief with fond hopes 
for the future. “Hope and wait!” he said to 
himself as he parted from the shrine of the 
Savior beneath the lindens; “hope and bear 
up !” he would repeat to his sinking heart when 
in the great capital he was ordered into the 
ranks of the soldiery; “hope and pray!” was 
his watchword through the long months of 



isolation from all that was dearest to him 
in life. 

But the time will pass even for the lonely 
soul and the anxious, yearning heart. Two 
years of his military service had been manfully 
spent, and Joseph was eagerly looking forward 
to the fulfilment of his fondest aspirations; 
his old uncle, who wished to enjoy the rest of 
his days in peace, had made over to him the 
estate and would resign the management of 
the farm on his return ; when he received news 
from home which, like a thunderbolt out of 
the serene skies, blasted his brightest hopes. 

News from home came sparingly during 
those years of isolation; Joachim had little 
time for such sentimental things as letters, and 
Joseph was thankful for the occasional line 
from the trembling hand of his aged mother, 
which was all that kept him in touch with the 
doings at home. Thus in the absence of more 
definite knowledge of the present, his musings 
would ever revert to the scenes of the past, 
and when he recalled the image of home it 
was in the sunny days of long ago, or in the 
twilight of melancholy hope with which he had 
left it. Out of these images of the past grew 
up his vision of the future, with its beautiful 
ideals and quiet pleasures, which was even 


29 

more real and engrossing to his youthful, san- 
guine heart than the past or the present. It 
was now the hand of the good mother that 
was destined to shatter that fair vision, and 
unwittingly inflict a cruel wound upon the 
heart of the absent son. Fondly she searched 
the house for a new pen, and brooded longer 
than usual over the spotless paper, as she sat 
down to impart to Joseph the happy intel- 
ligence that he would find a fine young mis- 
tress in the old establishment on his return in 
Fall. Joachim had finally yielded to her de- 
sires and sued for the hand of the fair Ma- 
riann, the neighbor’s daughter, an excellent 
girl, industrious and thrifty, and withal, one 
who could bring a mite to grace her nuptials 
with. The betrothal had been held on the 
previous Sunday, and the happy event of the 
wedding was to take place immediately after 
Easter, before the busy days of the season. 

Joseph read the fatal words. Their import 
was too great to be grasped at once, and he 
stared at them until they burned like fire on 
his feverish eyes. His impetuous affections 
revolted and cried out impossible, but the dull 
pain at his heart and the oppressive pulse in 
his temples told him that it was but too true, 
something had gone out of his life which could 


never be replaced. All that day he went about 
as if lost in a trance, and for the first time 
during the term of his service incurred a 
penalty for neglect of duty. Stationed as 
guard at the royal palace, he failed to present 
arms at the passing of the Prussian prince, 
and was sentenced to three days of military 
arrest. 

In the solitary gloom cf his cell Joseph 
had time enough to reflect on the sad ruin of 
his ambitions, and as he ruminated, a gloom 
more heavy and cold slowly settled upon his 
life. A feeling of utter desolation seized upon 
him and his fresh grief seemed to blot out all 
light and sunshine from his life, and turn all 
hope into mockery. Occasionally the scenes of 
happy boyhood would rush back upon his mem- 
ory, the days of careless sport and innocent 
affections, when friendship began among the 
daisies and the butterflies, bright and playful 
as a summer’s day; when love was unknown 
and there was no lowering menace in the heart’s 
attachments. But the thoughts which once had 
nurtured his hopes and inspired his aspirations, 
now only served to heighten' his grief and put 
a keener edge on his disappointment. Now 
it all proved a vain illusion; the prizes of life 
were not for him; in that moment of trial life 




itself seemed a worthless and treacherous 
thing. 

When Joseph left his confinement he was 
not the same man as before, though he bore 
up manfully and outwardly gave little evidence 
of the great change within. He had left his 
youth and happiness in that dark prison cell, 
he had resigned his claims on life, without 
resentment and grudge, but also without hope. 
Never even for a moment did it enter his 
mind to cast reproaches upon his lost love, 
or grudge the triumph of his brother, though 
it could never enter his mind that there were 
many good and happy girls in old Westphalia, 
who might fill the void in his heart and bring 
love and cheer to his humble home. With 
genuine Saxon tenacity, his love once con- 
ceived, was fixed for once and forever. With 
the same stern self-control he concealed his 
passion and grief from the world. Without 
flinching, calm and self-possessed, only a little 
paler and sterner than usual, he encountered 
his brother and the young wife, who blushed 
with embarrassing consciousness. Never fal- 
tering and without apparent emotion, though 
his heart was strained to breaking, he replied 
to the greetings of the family and endured the 
crude jests of his brother, who was not all 


unaware of Joseph’s former designs and his 
present mood. “I see it’s my luck, old boy,” 
he would say, “that you were not on the 
giound; I should never have dared to enter 
the lists against a fine young grenadier, as you 
have grown to be, and Fortune always strikes 
for those royal buttons when they’re to the 
front ; but, you see, she is good to us common 
folks once in a while, too. Joseph writhed 
under these heartless gibes, but he restrained 
himself with heroic self-command. But he 
did refuse to pass the night in the old home- 
stead. When his mother told him in a whisper, 
that she had put his old favorite room in 
readiness for him, he declared his intention 
to make his home with his old uncle in the 
cottage and to take up his quarters there at 
once. His determination was not to be shaken 
either by the mother’s fond entreaties, or the 
angry remonstrances of the brother. 

This state of affairs had continued thus for 
ten years and more, until the time with which 
this narrative opens. The aged granduncle 
and his faithful consort passed away, in the 
course of time, and left the little estate entirely 
in Joseph’s hands, who, with a spry old aunt 
as housekeeper and a few servants left from the 
old regime, managed to set up a comfortable 




and prosperous household, while his brother 
reigned absolute lord on the parental domains 
and wielded much influence with the peasants 
and burghers as an honored citizen and able 
magistrate. His inner life having thus been 
directed into new channels, Joseph had gradual- 
ly become reconciled to his lot, and with a mild 
melancholy still lingering with him lived a 
quiet, useful life. His energy and natural 
goodness of heart were put forth in active 
works toward the improvement of his own 
possessions and for the benefit of his needy 
neighbors. The stream of his affections, less 
intense than formerly, broadened and went out 
to cheer and enrich all who came within its in- 
fluence. He still continued the favorite with 
the servants of the Oak Farm, and never hesi- 
tated to lend a hand and good cheer in the 
busy harvest time. Seldom if ever he allowed 
himself to review his past experiences and 
dwell on the things that might have been; his 
active life and generous nature left little time 
for idle thought and vain regret. 

His affections and attentions were claimed 
in an especial manner by the young generation 
springing up at the Oak Farm. The lusty 
bouncing boy and the blooming girls were not 
more at home under their father’s roof than 
a brother’s sacrifice 3 


in the cozy cottage of the willows. Uncle Joe 
was their master of games and the most capital 
plaything they knew. He had the heart that 
wins a child, abounding in kindness, that in- 
comparable magnetism, and he was fain to 
bestow it where it brought such grateful re- 
turns. The little mites would have it that 
Uncle Joe’s cows were the fattest and his 
horses the strongest, and there were never 
such apple dumplings as Aunt Meg’s, the old 
housekeeper’s. There was glee in the snug 
little house of a winter’s night, when he could 
have the youngsters about his blazing hearth, 
teach them how to crack nuts without blister- 
ing their little fingers, and tell them a stirring 
tale which, of course, was always better than 
even those of old Nicholas, the shepherd. 

These were the sunbeams that shot through 
a life which had its clouds, and the flowers 
that bloomed by the lonely wayside for the 
refreshment of a weary wanderer. He had 
much to be grateful for, and Joseph was never 
unmindful of the fact. Even now, while he 
stood musing under the beech-tree, and gazed 
at the disappearing letters in its bark, the 
cheerful thought of the little ones broke in 
upon his reflections and the melancholy spell 



which was gathering round him. Little Ma- 
riann was the lovely image of that other, whom 
he had known and loved long ago, and when 
she smiled at him with her bright brown eyes 
and playfully shook her sunny tresses, there 
was no room for regret in the world. He 
turned to go, cheered by the anticipation of 
meeting the children who sometimes came to 
greet him with their merry shouts. 

But hark! there was another sound. Was 
it not the sharp report of a gun? Joseph heard 
it and looked around to discover whence it had 
issued. 

There was something ominous and painful 
in that deadly sound, piercing the quiet evening 
hour and sternly contrasting with the images 
of surrounding life and the mellow beauty of 
sunset. Joseph made an effort to shake off 
the sudden feeling of alarm which struck 
through his dream, and finally dismissed all 
apprehension when he reflected that it could 
be nothing but the shot of a huntsman out 
after game on a fine evening. It was an even- 
ing that would lure the deer early from their 
lairs, to drink at the fresh springs of the 
meadows and feed on the dewy grass. No one 
but the proprietors would venture to shoot in 


these parts; it must be the neighbor, thought 
Joseph, who happens to have an appetite for 
venison; Joachim will not be in a mood for 
the hunt after the day’s exertion. 


37 ? 


Chapter III. 

But the master of the Oak Farm never 
failed an opportunity of indulging his favorite 
sport, the chase, which was an engrossing pas- 
sion with him, and the scent of game at any 
time put new life into his veins. Having satis- 
fied himself with the progress of the work in 
the fields and dismissed the reapers, he turned 
to go back to the house, to give his orders for 
the evening. Taking the shortest way, he was 
passing by a footpath through the woods, when 
his vigilant eye espied a fine stately roebuck 
leaving the woods and cautiously stalking out 
toward the springs, tossing aloft his antlered 
head and scouring the plain with a wary eye. 

At the sight all sense of fatigue van- 
ished, all business cares and obligations were 
forgotten. His passion for game was roused, 
his powerful frame dilated, his sinews grew 
tense with excitement, and his eye kindled 
with the fierce pleasure of the chase. In- 
voluntarily he reached for the gun which he 
was wont to carry slung over his shoulder in 
his rambles through the woods, and next mo- 
ment, conscious of his mistake, gave an angry 
exclamation. But that prize must not escape; 


clenching his muscular hand he was about to 
spring at the prey unarmed and enter an open 
combat. But it was only an impulse ; he soon 
changed his plan. Keeping well under the 
wind, so as to avoid being detected by the 
scent, he struck deeper into the wood and 
crept along the mossy ground, making for the 
farmhouse, where he would provide himself 
with firearm and ammunition. The way led 
by his brother’s grounds. Seeing the cottage 
opposite, he perceived that he might come by 
the things he desired more conveniently; Jo- 
seph kept a hunting outfit in the house, though 
he seldom made use of it. 

His mind was instantly made up. He 
changed his course, stepped out into the open 
field and passed through the orchard toward 
the rear of the house. Arriving at the side 
door which opened into the kitchen, he un- 
latched it and entered. The fire was crackling 
on the grate and the kettle seethed, but there 
was no one to give him what he was so ardent- 
ly seeking. He muttered impatiently and bit 
his lips at the disappointment ; his rugged tem- 
per could at any time ill bear to be balked, 
least of all at a critical moment like this. He 
stepped to the other door and looked out. The 
women must be out in the meadow at milking, 


and Joseph was not yet returned from the 
field. Turning back into the room he sent the 
old cat, which purred and wheedled about his 
feet, across the room on the tip of his heavy 
boot and passed through the house. Pacing 
from room to room, he at last arrived at Jo- 
seph’s sleeping-room and there discovered what 
he wanted. On a bracket above the bed hung 
the gun, he knew that the powderhom and shot 
could not be far off and discovered both in a 
drawer of the little table. He was soon resolv- 
ed on his course. He would possess himself 
of the needful things; to wait for anybody 
would be a foolish waste of time and might 
spoil his sport altogether; he would explain 
his emergency when he returned the things and 
Joseph would not mind. So he took the gun 
from the bracket, provided himself with am- 
munition, and after a few moments left the 
house, unobserved, by the same door at which 
he had entered. 

The click of the falling latch caught the ear 
of the old housekeeper as she returned from 
the pasture with the serving-maid, on the op- 
posite side of the house. 

“Did you not hear anything?” she asked, 
I thought I just heard some one leaving the 
house.” 


“I heard nothing,” replied the other indif- 
ferently, as she set down the brimming pails 
of milk; “perhaps it was only a noise from the 
stables, or it might be the Master, he ought to 
be about the place by this time.” 

“Joseph, are you there?” called the old aunt 
as she bent over the pots on the hearth and 
began to stir up the embers into a fresh blaze. 
But there was no answer, no sound, save the 
murmur of the breeze in the rustling branches 
of the drooping willows without. 

“The Master must have been here,” final- 
ly decided the servant to her perfect satisfac- 
tion.” I remember positively having closed the 
sitting-room door when I came in to get the 
milk pails, and now it stands wide open. But 
look, what’s the matter with Puss ?” she added, 
as her attention was attracted by the old cat, 
who came limping and piteously crying from 
her concealment in her corner. 

With busy solicitude the housekeeper turn- 
ed to investigate the matter, and had no diffi- 
culty to discover, by the way the trembling 
animal dangled its fore foot, that it had been 
the victim of violence. 

“If Joseph were not the last man in the 
world to hurt any living thing, I should say 
that he has wickedly abused the poor crea- 


ture;” and she shook her head with a puzzled 
look in her sympathetic eyes. 

Puss gave no answer; but only began to 
lick her paw while she continued her mewing 
and whining, which might mean either yes 
or no. 

When Joachim arrived at the spot where 
he had descried the roebuck, there was no 
longer any trace of him to be seen. The hand- 
some creature had evidently been frightened 
by some noise and retired into the depth of 
the woods. 

The huntsman vented his anger at this 
new disappointment in vehement terms as he 
lowered his weapon and searched the place 
with an eager eye. There was no mistake, the 
coveted game was gone, but he still hoped to 
have an opportunity that evening of gratifying 
his pet passion, and after some deliberation 
stationed himself in ambush beneath the dark 
linden trees that overshadowed the stone shrine. 
A drain with running water and forming a 
small rivulet bordered the broad fields on this 
side ; having seen the deer come forth to drink 
here before, he was confident of a good shot 
and he would not miss it from his ambush. 
The fields which until late had been animated 
with the bustle of labor and merriment now 




lay in a deep hush; the reapers and binders 
had returned to the house; Gurth, the lame 
servant, straggling behind the rest, was seen 
hobbling along the hedge and then disappear- 
ed. The rich yellow grain, neatly disposed in 
rows of well-bound shocks, gleamed in the 
last warm glow of the evening sun and might 
have cheered the heart of any master of the 
soil. But Joachim had no eye for these charms 
now, no thought for the unexpected bounty 
with which his fields had been blessed. All 
his senses and instincts were intent on the one 
object of his pursuit, while his eyes with an 
eager gaze endeavored to penetrate the gloomy 
forest before him. 

Motionless he sat and waited with the 
patience of a hunter, but he waited long in 
vain. The dusk was deepening, the wood 
loomed darker, the evening breeze played 
among the foliage, but there was no sign of 
the expected game. The baffled huntsman 
began to flag in his pursuit and was about 
to abandon his post, when a sudden noise in 
the underbrush roused his interest afresh. 
His keen eye darted to the spot and his ear 
strained for every sound. Now the branches 
moved and he heard the crackling of dry 


twigs; he would make sure this time that the 
game should not escape. 

He tightened his grasp on the gun, his 
finger sought the trigger, while with intense 
gaze he covered the spot whence the prey 
would come forth. But his anger and disap- 
pointment were heightened when instead of 
the expected roe he saw a man leave the 
underwood and, slowly advancing, make for 
the field. As if in pursuit of a fixed purpose 
he overleapt the trench and walked directly 
toward the place where the reapers had left 
their work. Joachim watched him from his 
covert. It might be one of the reapers who 
had left his tools in the field and was now 
returned to get them. 

The disappointed huntsman vented a curse 
as he saw the fellow make a sudden dash 
toward the wheat shocks. “The fool will 
scare away all the game for me and spoil my 
last chance!” 

He was for checking the marplot and call- 
ing him to time, when a suspicious air 
about the man caused him to hesitate and ob- 
serve more closely. The intruder did not seem 
to be seeking anything on the ground, but 
stood for a few moments scanning the plain 
to right and to left, then suddenly stooped 


down and rose with a huge armful of the 
cut grain. 

“Aha, a thief !” muttered the proprietor 
of the farm, and forgetting the hunt in the 
interest of the new discovery, set to watching 
this new prey which had unexpectedly fallen 
into his snares. 

His attention was diverted from his for- 
mer pursuit, but his temper was not softened 
nor his thirst for game satisfied, but rather 
intensified by his resentment which was roused 
by this new discovery. He remembered that 
there had been a shortage in the rye harvest 
on a former occasion, and his vigilance had 
failed to detect the mischief-maker ; the wretch 
would now pay for it doubly, and he consoled 
himself to a degree for the game which had 
escaped his shot, he would make sure of this 
one. He lay in wait for the invader near the 
place where he had entered the field, and as 
he made the leap of the trench with his load, 
caught him by the collar and held him with an 
iron grip. 

The wretch squirmed beneath the fierce 
clutch, trembling with terror and amazement. 
“Let go, for heaven’s sake!” he gasped; “you 
are strangling me to death !” 

“Ha, you scamp, you had richly deserved 


it for your thievery, and it would be the best 
thing could happen to you,” snarled the other, 
relaxing his hold a trifle and dragging his 
prey, writhing and struggling, out of the deep 
shadow of the wood into the open field. “Let 
me see what a pretty bird I’ve caught here!” 

He gave a vicious laugh as he looked into 
the culprit’s face and recognized the pale and 
terror-striken features. “Ha, ha ! it’s that 
worthless sot of a tailor ! I might have known 
that only a ragged loafer like you would ven- 
ture into my property. But I’ll spoil the busi- 
ness for you now. We’ll supply your bread 
and salt for you and save you the trouble of 
these nightly excursions ; you’re not over fond 
of work anyhow.” 

“For mercy’s sake, Master Eichhof, let me 
go !” he whined, and endeavored to wriggle 
out of the grasp of the strong man. “Have 
mercy ! I am an honest man.” 

“Honest, to be sure! but in your own 
way.” And he laughed with cruel amusement 
at the fright and helpless struggle of the poor 
wretch, while he rudely shook him to increase 
his terror. “Honest, indeed! I suppose you 
intended to return your loans with interest 
next year, but that’s not our way about it; 
we’ll give you time to think it over.” 


“I swear, Master, that only the utmost 
need has driven me to this. My wife and 
children are starving for bread.” 

“Of course, because you are always starv- 
ing for a drink and chase every penny you 
earn down your own wretched throat. The 
innkeepers are not starving hereabouts, but 
they’ll see hard times when we furnish the 
free drinks for you behind the grates. You’ll 
have time to sober up there.” 

“Give me a chance, and I will improve; 
upon my soul I will do better. Please, Master 
Eichhof, let me free this time!” 

“I’ll do nothing of the kind, you knave; 
I’ll have justice in my domains, that’s my busi- 
ness. You have been pilfering too long al- 
ready, and now you shall suffer for it, as 
surely as I am an honest man.” 

The tailor, seeing that his captor was not 
to be moved by entreaties, made a violent 
effort to escape. With the strength and agility 
of desperation he wrested himself loose from 
the grasp of the proprietor and took to head- 
long flight. 

“Stand! or I’ll shoot you down!” cried 
the enraged proprietor, once more cheated of 
his prey. 


> 

But the poor tailor, frenzied with terror 
and seeing only the dungeon behind him, 
heeded not the fatal threat, but with all the 
speed he could muster up made for the shelter- 
ing enclosure of the shrine. 

There were a few moments of silence in- 
terrupted only by his hasty tread, then the 
sharp, sudden crack of a firearm burst upon 
the dead calm of the summer evening. The 
fleeing man gave a faint agonizing cry, threw 
up his hands and fell, pierced to the death, at 
the foot of the stone cross. 

Joachim heard the groans of the dying 
man, and the sound seemed to freeze the blood 
in his veins. His hands dropped rigid to his 
sides, the weapon dropped from his grasp; 
all anger and resentment and every other feel- 
ing were swallowed up in cold horror; all the 
world was that instant changed to him, and 
he was for a moment unable to move or to 
frame a thought. The last convulsive gasps 
of his victim died away, and all was again 
silent. Then, with a fury, the consciousness 
of his rash deed seized upon him, and like a 
burst of lightning all the fatal consequences 
flashed across his mind. He seemed no longer 
to be alone, the quiet and solitude seemed 
peopled with persecutors, there was a con- 


demnation in the innocent aspect of surround- 
ing nature, and every breeze seemed to cry 
out upon his crime. From within came the 
deep and awful accusation of murder! and a 
frenzied groan escaped from his lips. 

The sound of his own voice roused him 
from these reflections and he started from his 
place. “What if I should be detected here ! — 
the Master of Eichhof a murderer! and all 
these witnesses to condemn me on the spot!” 

With a frantic impulse he picked up the 
gun and cast it into the trench, tore off the 
powderhorn as if it were a deadly viper, threw 
shot and powder after the weapon, and then 
with stealthy tread and panic haste turned 
his back on the scene of his crime. 




Chapter IV. 

Joseph, thus suddenly recalled from his 
reveries by the report of the fatal shot and 
led by a vague curiosity, sauntered away 
in the direction indicated by the sound. 
As he approached the thicket he called a 
salute, but received no reply; at the same 
moment he perceived through the boughs of 
the trees at a distance the hurried movements 
of his brother. Naturally supposing him to be 
on the trail of the game, he made for the 
seat under the linden-trees, to await the out- 
come of the hunt. He had proceeded but a 
few paces when his eye fell on the prostrate 
body, lying beneath the trees and indistinctly 
seen through the deep shadows. 

“Good heavens !” he exclaimed, “there has 
been an accident!” and hurried toward the 
spot to render any possible assistance. He 
stooped over the motionless body, took the 
cold hand in his own and spoke to the man, 
but there was no response and he soon realized 
with a shudder that he had a lifeless corpse on 
his hands. 

The sightless eyes stared through the gloom 
with a ghastly expression of lingering terror, 

a brother’s sacrifice 4 


and the head fell back heavily as he endeavored 
to raise the body and with a trembling hand 
sought for the heart. There was no pulse, no 
breath ; through a wound in the breast the 
warm blood oozed forth and trickled slowly 
to the ground — the last sign of extinguished 
life. 

Joseph was filled with horror at the sight. 
“Dead, and shot through the breast! — What 
in the world has happened ! — What ever 
brought the man in here ? and — good heavens ! 
— was that not Joachim that I just saw — ” 

His heart and breath failed him. A cold 
shudder shook his limbs. The blood rushed 
back to his heart with an oppressive force 
that seemed to stifle its pulse, and again with 
a violent stroke surged through his veins. 
A terrible suspicion rose in his breast, — so 
dark and awful that he recoiled from the 
thought and a chill perspiration covered his 
brow. 

He wrestled with his own mind. Joachim! 
— it could not be, it was absurd to think of 
it! The proud, disdainful Master of Eich- 
hof, what quarrel could there be between him 
and this wretched creature, the poor tailor? 
what reason could there be for such a deed? 
— And yet, had he not seen him plainly as he 




hurried through the woods? could he mistake 
the familiar figure? was it not his stature, his 
gait, the color of his dress? — The more he 
pondered, the more overwhelming grew the 
fearful conviction; there could be no mistake 
as to the identity of the man, and what could 
be the meaning of his stealthy flight after 
the shot had been heard ? Dark presentiments 
preyed on Joseph’s sensitive nature; he fore- 
saw a terrible doom lowering over the place 
and involving the family of Eichhof in dis- 
grace and disaster; though his unselfish dis- 
position made him insensible to the danger 
of his own position, and he did not dream that 
he was the victim upon whom the doom was 
descending. The sudden shock and agony 
of mind unnerved him and he stood wringing 
his hands in helpless bewilderment and dis- 
may. 

The dismal howl of a dog, that had scented 
the presence of the corpse, broke the deep 
silence and roused the unwilling mourner from 
his brooding despair. Soon the animal e- 
merged from the brushwood, came slowly for- 
ward with signs of fear and brute sympathy, 
sniffled about the corpse, and again set up 
his lugubrious howl. 

Voices were now heard from among the 


bushes and the sound of steps approaching 
on the footpath, and presently two domestics 
of the Farm, each loaded with a heavy sack 
of flour which they brought from the neigh- 
boring mill, appeared on the scene of the 
calamity. Following the sound of the dog they 
advanced to the shrine, and fell back in alarm 
as they beheld Joseph kneeling beside the 
dead body. 

“For heaven’s sake! Joseph, what does 
this mean? what has happened?” exclaimed 
the elder of the two, a gray-headed man who 
had served many years on the establishment 
and was much attached to the family. 

“I don’t know, Bernard,” was all that the 
dismayed and horror-stricken man could an- 
swer. His voice was hoarse and heavy; a 
stern and unseen power seemed to clutch at 
his throat and forbid him from uttering a 
word of the dreadful secret that tormented his 
bosom. 

The old servant disengaged himself of his 
burden and squatted down beside the corpse. 
“By old Gambrinus, it’s thirsty Tom, the 
tailor!” he exclaimed, after a hasty scrutiny 
of the dead man’s features. “Did the wretch 
at last drink himself to everlasting sleep? 
There’s little loss to the world, to be sure.” 


But suddenly he started and cut short his 
idle remarks. “Joseph, here is blood! the 
man has been killed! — suicide?” 

Joseph, who had not yet recovered from 
his horror and apprehension, again endeavored 
to speak, but his voice refused its service; 
his lips moved mechanically, but brought forth 
no audible sound. He onlv sighed and con- 
tinued motionless in the same posture, an im- 
age of utmost grief and despair. 

In the meantime the younger companion 
of the old man had likewise set down his 
sack against a tree and came forward to see 
and satisfy his curiosity. 

“It’s the poor tailor, sure enough,” he said, 
“but what is he doing on these grounds?” 
With this he turned and cast a searching 
glance around the place and discovered the 
stock of the firearm, which had been thrown 
into the trench, partly emerging from the 
water and glimmering through the deep twi- 
light. “A gun!” he exclaimed, and started 
for the spot where he had made the dis- 
covery. 

“Hold on, Martin!” said the old man and 
checked his progress. “Nothing must be 
moved or disturbed; whether this means an 
accident or suicide, everthing must remain 


just as it is. Don’t touch a thing if you don’t 
wish to get into a scrape with the courts your- 
self. Isn’t that right, Joseph ?” 

The courts! — Joseph started and shrank 
at hearing the ill-omened word, as if he him- 
self had received a deadly blow ; in an instant 
his excited imagination conjured up the whole 
train of dire consequences which the word 
suggested. His brother, the proud, heredi- 
tary Master of Eichhof, in bonds and dragged 
to the seat of justice as a vile malefactor ! the 
respected representative of an old and honor- 
able ancestry, who had held the estate for cen- 
turies and gained a reputation for their charac- 
ter and valuable services to their country, 
convicted, disgraced, executed ! — The inno- 
cent children, the pride and pleasure of Mari- 
ann, — they were to be the children of a crim- 
inal, of a man destined to die by the hand of 
the hangman, detested by all honest people! 

“I, at least,” continued Bernard, receiving 
no answer to his well-meaning advice, “shall 
take care not to stir a finger in this matter. 
I have no desire to get myself into trouble 
on account of that worthless tramp and be 
bullied by your saucy officials and maybe get 
a rap from the judge to boot. If you listen 
to me, lad, we shall quietly take home our 


flour sacks and tell the Master about this, he 
may send word to the police or do as he likes. 
I have enough of this business already.” 

With this declaration he shouldered his 
load and turned to go. His young companion 
followed his example, not without a last sin- 
ister glance at the corpse and the disconsolate 
man beside it. 

The old man stopped once more and turned 
back. “I hope, Joseph,” he said, “you don’t 
expect to bring the man back to life, he’s as 
dead as a door-nail, I can warrant you, and 
will keep his post without your watch. The 
old vagabond isn’t worth the trouble,” he 
continued as he proceeded toward the house. 
“I’m all upset and my appetite is clean gone, 
and I had promised to pay myself richly after 
this day’s murderous work.” And old Bernard 
sulked and frowned as if he had really been 
the injured party in the unhappy event. 

“I say, Bernard,” put in his companion, 
sidling close up to him and lowering his voice 
to a whisper, “what do you think about the 
whole business?” 

“What do I think! — I think it’s the scur- 
viest trick the good-for-nothing fellow ever 
played on honest people, though he was a 
nuisance all his life. It’s an outrage to come 


in here and disgrace the grounds by the like 
of him; if he had a mind to blow out his 
worthless life, he might have done it at home 
without troubling other people. And this just 
at supper-time!” 

“Yes, yes, you’re right; but I mean, don’t 
you think there was something queer about 
Joseph?” 

“I don’t know about that. Joseph always 
had a soft heart and thinks he must help every 
poor devil that comes his way, and, I tell 
you, to see a man, even if it is only that 
scapegrace of a tailor, lying drenched in his 
blood and think that his soul has gone out 
of that body and stands before the great 
Judge of all, good and bad — after all, I think, 
it’s not such a pleasant thing. It might even 
soften me, if it were any other time. Why, 
even old Sleuth there, the senseless brute, was 
moved at the sight and howled as if he had 
seen the poor fellow’s soul in purgatory. — 
But there it is, old Hinnerk said there would 
be trouble, a terrible disaster, he said, was 
coming upon the Oak Farm, he saw it last 
night.” 

“What did he see?” eagerly inquired the 
other. 

“I don’t know what. Some mischief-mak- 


ers, no doubt, witches or ghosts ; but he 
wasn't so talkative as usual and I couldn't 
get at the bottom of the secret and we have 
been so busy all day, I couldn’t see him since. 
Well, if this is all, it’s not such a great dis- 
aster ; this fellow was more mischief living 
than dead, perhaps. But it’s that fatal place 
that they talk about, just on the boundary 
of the two farms.” 

“Well, you may say what you like, Bern- 
ard,” said the young man, “but I do believe 
that Joseph knows more about this business 
than might be good for him.” 

“Oho! young man, what are you driving 
at now?” and catching fire at the insinua- 
tion, the old servant arrested his step, set down 
his burden and stood staring at the presump- 
tuous young fellow with a threatening scowl. 

Martin, thinking it safer to be disengaged 
in case of emergency, likewise lowered his 
sack and continued after a moment’s hesita- 
tion. “Well, I mean — you know, it looks 
suspicious to me. If the man’s dead, he’s dead, 
and there’s no use of moping over him like 
that; and why does he look so frightened? 
and why doesn’t he speak up like any man, if 
he hasn’t done it and doesn’t know — ” 

A vigorous box on the ear from the veter- 


^ 5 a 


an, which sent the speaker staggering, put a 
violent end to these sagacious observations. 

“So then/’ added the zealous minister of 
justice, “now say it again if you have a mind. 
No man is safe from these idle wagging 
tongues, but just have your say and I’ll give 
you my opinion in my own language, if it’s 
the only kind you’ll understand.” 

But the other fully understood the old 
man’s position by this time and was not de- 
sirous to push his point under such odds, 
though he was by no means convinced. “Well, 
my thoughts are my own,” he said, “but it’s 
no business of mine.” 

“You will do well to remember that and 
act accordingly,” rejoined Bernard with honest 
indignation. “Fie, for shame! the insolence, 
only to think such a thing of an Eichhof and 
a man like Joseph, the very soul of good- 
ness, who would rather feed a dozen vaga- 
bonds like this tailor than pinch a hair of 
one’s head. 

Martin muttered something to himself ex- 
pressive both of anger and doubt; but old 
Bernard who was well satisfied with the part 
he had taken in the dispute and considered 
his argument irresistible, took it to be a humble 
apology and, resuming his load, continued in 



silence the rest of the way. 

As they approached to the house through 
the large oaken gateway, the overseer of the 
Parm came strolling toward them and shouted 
a merry greeting; but the smile froze on his 
lips and his pipe almost fell from his mouth 
as he heard the news of the fatality by the 
shrine. 

He made some hasty inquiries and re- 
ceived all the details which Bernard could 
supply. “I wish the master were here/’ he 
said, thoughtfully scratching his head and 
looking around. “I don’t know what keeps 
him so long this evening; but in a case like 
this, on your own premises, there must be no 
delay, if you don’t want to get tangled up 
with the law.” 

He at once despatched a domestic, who 
stared with open mouth on receiving the un- 
wonted charge, with a message to the con- 
stable of the neighboring town. Promptly per- 
ceiving what was next demanded in the case 
of old Bernard and his companion after the 
fright and fatigue of the evening, he took 
them to the servants’ apartment to brace their 
spirits with a draugl - of old Mosel wine, 
deeming himself entitled to the same consider- 
ation in view of the gravity of the occasion. 


“These are delicate affairs,” he said, “and 
want to be handled cautiously, we’ll talk it 
over for a moment and meantime the Master 
might come back.” 

As the Master did not appear, they de- 
cided to return to the scene of action. “It’s 
the best we can do,” said the overseer, “since 
we have knowledge of the event and, in any 
case, shall be called upon to witness.” Martin 
looked at him with wide eyes. “Yes,” he 
continued, I have been present at two similar 
cases in affairs of life and death and I know 
what will be coming. You say Joseph Eich- 
hof was there?” 

“Yes,” said Martin, and was about to 
blurt out with the rest of his story, but ab- 
ruptly held his breath at an angry look from 
his old adversary. 

“Well, then he will be able to advise us 
what’s to be done further,” said the overseer 
and rose to go. The other two followed, but 
Martin could not resist the temptation to fall 
back, as they passed out through the gate, and 
whisper his burning secret to the milkmaid 
who happened to be passing by and stood to 
look after them. “But you must not tell a 
living soul,” he said, “Joseph Eichhof must 
have a hand in it, he was there all alone by 


the dead man, and he looked awfully fright- 
ened, and he wouldn’t say a word when we 
spoke to him.” 

Glad to have found a credulous listener 
and pleased with the effect of his communica- 
tion on the amazed girl, he hastened to re- 
join his elders. But he had scarcely closed 
the gate behind him when Gena saw another 
milkmaid coming up from the dairy, and 
under awful pledge of silence imparted to her 
the dreadful news. “And would you believe 
it? Martin says Joseph Eichhof must have 
done it, because there was nobody else there, 
and he was so frightened when they saw him 
that he couldn’t speak.” 

“What ! Joseph kill a man ! — you are 
dreaming, girl, that’s impossible ! — But then, 
you can’t know what’s in people until it comes 
out. Who ever would have thought that Jake 
Meier could have killed a man? He acted the 
innocent all through and everybody was angry 
at the constable for being so rough to him; 
but they proved it and nobody else did it 
but him. — How awful!” 

“Now what’s all this chattering about?” 
and Cora, the head domestic of the house- 
hold broke in upon their mysterious con- 
ference; “go about your work; the Mistress 
is waiting for you, Lena.” 




Cora was the next to hear the story now, 
but not so credulous as the others, she re- 
sented the affront offered to the house and 
the man whose name was thus abused in 
slanderous gossip. “You are a pair of silly 
geese and should know better. Whoever told 
you that, is a rogue and has made fools of 
you both. Our Joseph! — you are wicked 
things ever to believe such a thing!” 

The two gossipers gave place to wrath and 
slunk away abashed and guilty. But they had 
their triumph when after half an hour Martin 
stormed up to the house, out of breath, and 
inquired for the Master. The Master was 
needed most urgently. 

“What’s the matter? the woods burning?” 
said Cora, who had not yet recovered from her 
chagrin and indignation. “I don’t know where 
the Master is and I wish you wouldn’t bother 
us. Everything seems to go wrong this even- 
ing; here it’s seven o’clock and past and no 
supper, and the Master will not come home, 
and the girls are good for nothing but to 
put their heads together and tell foolish tales. 
But what’s the matter? I saw you running 
through the field as if you had a mad steer 
after you.” 

“Tom Steiner, the tailor has been killed. 


shot dead, — but don’t get frightened — the con- 
stable is over there by the stone cross, and 
another police, and that’s what they say; they 
found a gun in the drain by the field, and it 
belongs to Joseph Eichhof.” 

“To Joseph ! — impossible ! — you’re silly, 
boy !” exclaimed the servants who had gather- 
ed about the speaker. 

“But it’s true just the same,” he continued, 
“I said so to Bernard right away, because he 
was so queer and wouldn’t speak; I could see 
that he knew something about it.” 

“You mean fellow !” cried Cora, “to speak 
that way of the best man in the county!” and 
she brought her fingers into close proximity 
to his face, so that he found it necessary to 
dodge and recede a few paces. 

“But then, why doesn’t he say something 
to defend himself, eh, Cora? He sits there 
like a statue on the stone bench and stares 
at the dead man, and will not answer a word 
to all the questions of the police. The con- 
stable says he’s sorry, but he must do his duty, 
and the policeman says there can be no doubt 
about it. And then the gun — it’s that fine 
new one, you know, that he bought in the 
city last year — how could that get there? — 
But, heavens ! I must go, where is the Master?” 


“Not here yet, my lad,” said the gray- 
headed Gurth. “But, children, you can never 
put it into my old head that Joseph is a crim- 
inal, you may say what you like; he’s the 
last man in the world to do anything like that.” 

“Well, you can’t tell,” put in another; 
“still waters flow deep, they say; but I can’t 
understand what he could have to do with 
that vagabond of a tailor.” 

“But there must be something true about 
the report after all,” said the old hostler; 
there’s never a hen called speckled that has 
no spot; and didn’t you hear what old Hin- 
nerk saw last night?” 

“What was it?” they questioned eagerly 
as they drew closer round the speaker. Even 
Cora, who had stood her ground bravely and 
opposed the tide of rumor and ill report, gave 
way to curiosity and came a few steps nearer. 

“The old man inconsolable,” he went 
on, “and is moping all day, and if he’s right 
there are sad days coming upon the old Earm. 
He saw the two brothers, as he calls them, 
and they have brought mischief more than 
once before; he saw them rise out of the 
ground last night and walk along the hedge- 
row between the fields, toward the big lin- 
dens; he said it means certain misfortune to 




the family; now here it is already, and this 
is only the beginning of it, I’ll warrant.” 

This revelation caused general surprise 
and consternation and for a while they stood 
gazing at each other in silence. 

Old Gurth was the first to resume the 
' conversation. “Well, children, let me tell you 
how it happened,” he said, placing his finger 
on his forehead and looking as if he meant to 
penetrate through the .depths of fate; “I think 
I have it. That beggarly thief was shooting 
game on the premises, and it wouldn’t be the 
first time that these poaching rascals tempted 
an honest man to do something rash. I sup- 
pose Joseph caught him in the act. The best 
man may lose his temper in such a case and 
before you know it the deed is done. But I 
shouldn’t like to call Joseph Eichhof a mur- 
derer.” 




A brother’s sacrifice 


5 




Chapter V. 

While the mysterious report of the fatality 
thus ran through the entire household and 
kept all tongues and ears busy with its hasty 
discussion, things were going amiss in the 
kitchen; cook and serving-maids had deserted 
their posts and the odor of scorched victuals 
began to creep through the house. The Mis- 
tress, who had for some time been aware of 
the irregularity, now appeared at the head 
of the stair to inquire the cause of the strange 
disturbance. The sight of the matronly wom- 
an who commanded both the respect and affec- 
tions of the household, threw a sudden hush 
upon the gossipers who could not but feel 
that their talk must be odious to their mistress 
and the lifelong friend of its object, Joseph 
Eichhof. 

But she had caught the last words of old 
Gurth, “Joseph Eichhof a murderer/’ and 
though she did not understand the purport of 
the discourse, she was at once seized by a 
violent presentiment of evil. The very sound 
of the fatal words, striking her thus unawares, 
staggered her and she grasped the door-frame 
for support; but recovering herself, she de- 


scended toward the group of servants who in- 
voluntarily drew back as they observed the 
expression of sadness and alarm on her noble 
features. But she approached them firmly, 
and her alarm gave way to a noble indignation 
which filled them with a feeling of silent awe. 

“Who speaks of murder here?” she de- 
manded in a resolute voice. 

There was no reply. 

“Who says that Joseph — ” her voice falter- 
ed here and she shuddered at the fatal word 
which she was about to associate with a name 
which had been dear to her from her childhood 
and which she never pronounced without re- 
spect. After a moment she resumed: “Who 
says the Master’s brother is a murderer?” 

Still no one ventured to speak. 

Mariann slowly gazed around the circle 
and then continued with a slight tremor of 
emotion in her voice: 

“Whatever has happened and whatever 
has been rumored about here, I’ll vouch that 
Joseph is no criminal, and take live coals in 
my hand. And now peace to your evil mur- 
murings.” 

Old Gurth took the word again. “Perfect- 
ly true, I have said so many a time, it’s im- 
possible; I’ll take my oath on Joseph any day; 




but then, lady, this is queer news they bring 
from the place.” 

Mariann repeated her protest, “Joseph is 
no criminal !” to the great satisfaction of Cora 
who had returned from a panic rush to the 
kitchen and now stood behind her mistress, 
confirming every word with a vigorous nod. 

At this juncture the gate opened and the 
overseer was seen hastily approaching up the 
path. 

“Ho, Martin! you’re a jewel,” he shouted 
without heeding the anxious faces turned to- 
ward him ; “you would make a messenger 
for the king! is this your errand? Here we 
send him for the Master and he lets us wait 
until he has found and gossiped with every 
soul on the Farm but the man we want. Where 
is the Master? not yet returned?” 

“Why, he is here this long time,” said the 
Mistress; “I heard him in his lounging-room 
upstairs half an hour ago.” 

“Well, well, why didn’t we know that? 
he could have saved me a deal of fright and 
worry. Here I’m breaking my head how to 
get out of this scrape and I suppose he is com- 
fortably enjoying his pipe and his glass of beer 
the while.” 

Mariann bade Gurth go up and call the 




Master and turned again to the overseer, but 
her courage failed her as she tried to speak 
and she could not utter the question which rose 
to her lips. 

The overseer, deaf to the inquiries with 
which he was assailed on all sides, arrested the 
servant who had turned to do his mistress’s 
bidding and addressed himself to Mariann: 

“Well, really,” he said, as he gave a shy 
glance at the open door, “it’s hardly necessary 
to trouble him about it now ; we have done al- 
most all that can be done for the time being. I 
sent notice to the constable and he has made 
his report of the case. The body will not be 
removed till tomorrow. Only some of the men 
must go over and stay with the officer who 
keeps watch there tonight, and take over a 
bite to eat. It’s no pleasure to stay out in the 
dark with a dead man all night; I don’t want 
to do it, I’m sick of the gruesome work already 
and want to get it off my hands.” 

Mariann insisted that the Master should be 
informed of the proceedings, and repeated her 
command to the servant. 

The overseer again held him back and con- 
tinued with an air of hesitancy and self-im- 
portance : 

“Well, — ahem, you know, after all we 
can’t deny that his brother — ” 


“Carl !” cried Mariann, “what do you 
mean !” and the color fled from her cheeks. 

“I can’t believe it myself, it seems impos- 
sible; but the evidence is too plain, there’s no 
way out of it; the police say there can be no 
doubt.” 

“But Carl, you know it cannot be!” 

“Yes, lady; but the corps delius, or what- 
ever they called the thing they were search- 
ing for has been found, and that settles the 
matter.” 

Conscious of the importance of his position 
and of the weight of this last statement, he 
looked around with a self-satisfied air, while 
Mariann, mute with horror and vague but 
overwhelming apprehension, returned to the 
house, and old Bernard turned away from 
the crowd to wipe a tear. 

Two of the servants, induced by curiosity 
and the novelty of the experience, volunteered 
their services for the night and were ap- 
pointed for the watch with the police officer; 
the rest dispersed with various feelings and 
forebodings, some silent with sorrow and 
sympathy, others ventilating their wisdom in 
wrangling disputes. 

The faithful Cora followed her dismayed 
mistress to the house, seeking to reassure her 




P^p^p^ppr^p^ppr^rp^pprz^ppz^ < J. ^ -<•- * ^ 

by imparting some of her own unshaken con- 
fidence. The very enormity of the charge was 
the ground of her strength. 

“As long as I have my wits together,” she 
said, “they can’t make me believe it, and 1 
don’t care if the judges and juries put their 
heads together and swear their souls to perdi- 
tion; and that’s just what they’ll do if they 
don’t leave their hands off an honest man. Don’t 
I know that boy since he was a babe? There 
isn’t a black speck in all his blood. There must 
be some dreadful mistake and it will soon be 
explained.” 

“But this terrible suspicion, Cora,” broke in 
her mistress, “is it not calamity enough? This 
hideous rumor ! Think of the disgrace that 
falls upon the poor man ! the agony of shame ! 
— And what will Joachim say? what will he 
do? But tell me more about this, I hardly 
know what they are talking about.” 

It was not until now that Mariann re- 
ceived the tale as it went current through the 
place. Her indignation had been aroused from 
the first, and she disdained even to inquire 
into the details of the monstrous report. When 
she had heard all and composed herself suf- 
ficiently, she decided to speak to her husband 
and communicate to him the disastrous news, 


though she shrank from the thought of giving 
him pain. She feared the effects of the shock 
on his proud, impetuous nature, knowing to 
what extremities his violent temper sometimes 
urged him on. 

Summoning all her self-control she rose 
and ascended the stairway which led to his 
room. As she came near his door she heard 
strange sounds from within. Joachim was sitting 
at his table and rummaging among a mass of 
rustling papers ; she heard the chink of money 
on the table ; suddenly he uttered a low, hoarse 
sound which was almost a moan, and nervous- 
ly shuffled his feet on the floor; and again all 
was silent. She stood irresolute, her heart 
misgave her, the thought of her appalling mes- 
sage- came back to her with new force. Had 
he already learned of the misfortune which 
overhung the family? or was it only a dark 
presentiment which troubled his bosom? 

She drew back and stepped into the bed- 
room just opposite, where one of the little 
children was already a-bed and sleeping sound- 
ly from the day’s fun and frolic. The little 
ones had been out looking for “Uncle Joe” in 
the evening, as usual, but they returned dis- 
appointed and fretful as he did not come home 
and was nowhere to be found. As the fond 


mother now stood and gazed at the little girl, 
wreathed in her curling ringlets, her breath 
coming free and light under the sweet spell of 
a child’s slumber, — an image of peace and in- 
nocence, her own troubled heart brimmed over 
and the tears started to her eyes. Was the 
peace of the family, domestic joy and sun- 
shine, to be shattered and quenched forever 
by this fell stroke of fortune? — The child 
began to prattle in its sleep, she laid her hand 
on its curly head and caressed it, and heard 
the child lisp the name of “Uncle Joe.” It 
seemed to give her confidence. “Yes,” she 
said, “all will be well yet; Joseph is innocent 
and the horrible suspicion shall be put to 
shame.” 

With this she left the room and again re- 
turned to that in which her husband was. As 
she slowly and timidly opened the door, she 
saw him sitting in the dim lamplight, bent over 
the table on which packets and sheets of paper 
were confusedly scattered about, resting his 
face in his hand and vacantly gazing into space. 
He was not aware of her presence, and she 
called to him in a low voice. At the sound 
of his name he gave a start, quickly glanced 
around, and drew his handkerchief over the 
little heap of money, in coin and notes, which 
he had laid aside. 


“What’s the matter ?” he asked in a nervous 
tone, while he began to finger the papers be- 
fore him. “I’m busy here. I can’t come now.” 

“Oh, Joachim! it’s something awful I have 
to tell you,” she began. 

“Ha, ha! something awful!” he broke in, 
with a husky laugh and a forced attempt at 
an appearance of unconcern. “You women 
needn’t go far to find something awful. What 
is it? the cat sick again?” 

With this he opened a drawer and pre- 
tended to be searching for something, nervous- 
ly avoiding to face her. After a while he 
closed it again with a thud, and addressed his 
unwelcome visitor: 

“Well, if I can’t do anything for you, 
Mariann, I wish you would leave me to my 
work. You know, the men must be paid off 
tomorrow, — there’s the strange help, and I 
haven’t got my accounts straightened out yet. 
Somebody must have been meddling in here.” 

“I’ll not keep you long, but I must tell you 
— oh, heavens! — ” 

Exhausted by her efforts at self-restraint 
and yielding to her feelings, she sank upon a 
chair and burst into tears. The man’s alarm 
and anxiety grew more intense. He darted a 
stealthy glance at the door, as if in fear of a 


pursuer, then at the open window, while his 
hands moved convulsively and his whole body 
was a-tremble. Mariann, distracted by her 
violent emotions and blinded by the gloomy 
images of her own mind, scarcely heeded his 
irregular conduct, nor marked the paleness of 
his half-averted face, his quivering lips, and 
the wild look in his wandering eye. Suddenly 
he gathered up the money with an uncertain 
hand, shoved it hurriedly into his pocket, drop- 
ping a few coins which rolled across the room, 
and made for the door. 

“I must be off now, Mariann,” he said, 
“I must go to town and see whether I can’t 
get some cash on a few notes I have here; 
I’m short and I can’t let the men wait any 
longer.” 

“Stay, Joachim!” she interjected, rising 
from her seat and grasping him by the arm. 
“How can you think of such trifles now, when 
your brother — ’’she broke off with a sob. 

Joachim, whose tormenting suspicions made 
him fear the worst, shook off her hand im- 
patiently. 

“I tell you I have no time now, to hear 
your idle tales,” he insisted, “speak and have 
done, I must be gone.” 

“Idle tales!” she exclaimed, “alas! would 


that it were an idle tale! — An idle tale, Joa- 
chim ! when your brother is accused of a dread- 
ful crime, when they call your brother a mur- 
derer !” 

He rebounded as if he had received a 
violent blow and stood, staring at her mutely 
with wild, bulging eyes. She was alarmed 
at the effect of her words and instinctively 
retreated toward the door. But the desperate 
stare in his look soon gave way to one of re- 
lief. The worst, then, was over. His haunting 
dread had not been realized. He turned to 
his wife with more confidence and spoke in a 
tone of utmost surprise: 

“Joseph! — my brother! — what do you 
mean ?” 

Mariann, striving to compose herself, 
though she still trembled under his questioning 
stare, repeated what she had heard of the death 
on the boundary of the fields, and how rumor 
immediately connected the name of his brother 
with the deed. 

As she proceeded with her account, there 
was a decided change in his features, his eye 
brightened, the frown vanished from his 
brows, and his bearing took on something of 
his accustomed haughtiness and self-confidence. 
He conceived new hope; it was as if new life 


had been granted him. The possibility of his 
having been observed at the place or in his 
flight had been tormenting him; but his name 
was not mentioned in the report, no suspicion 
attached to his person. He was puzzled to 
account for the discovery of his brother at the 
place of his crime; it was unfortunate, but it 
might have been worse. Joseph was innocent 
of the deed and he would soon be cleared of 
the charge. What matter if he did pass as the 
culprit for a time and sit it out in the dungeon 
for a few days? It was for the honor of the 
family, Joseph would not object to the sacri- 
fice if he knew the truth of the matter. In 
the worst event he would gain time for his 
intended flight, if things looked threatening he 
would make good his escape to Australia or 
America. 

“There must be a mistake/’ he said, with 
more composure, “or you have misunderstood 
the report. It will be all right, only be a little 
more cool about it. The tailor, you say? what 
could Joseph have to do with him?” 

He shuddered at the recollection of the 
terrible scene. Darkness had set in, the breezes 
stirring in the trees without brought back to 
him the voices of the forest and the groans 
of the dying man. 


“Oh, I know it cannot be,” cried Mariann, 
“but that’s what they say, and everybody 
seems to believe it. But, Joachim, tell me, 
you do not believe it? If you did, it would 
drive me mad.” 

This candid and feeling appeal of the tor- 
tured woman touched him and he wavered 
for a few moments in indecision. His confi- 
dence was shaken, truth and honor were a- 
wakened in his breast, his better nature strove 
for the mastery. Would it not be better in 
the end to own the truth, to make an honest 
confession, than to add a new crime to his 
guilt by plunging his innocent brother into 
disgrace and misery. He had not been men- 
tioned in the rumor, no one had seen him, 
there was no legal evidence, — he could engage 
the best lawyers in the country; there was 
much in his favor to palliate the deed. But 
quickly as these thoughts came, they were put 
down. His pride rebelled at the thought of 
the humiliation and his guilty conscience 
shrank from the prospect of meeting the stern 
face of justice. Joseph must and would be 
soon released, and if he did get a little fright 
and sat in the lonely cell awhile, what of that ? 

He was roused from these musings as Ma- 
riann repeated the question: 


“You do not believe it, Joachim?” 

“I believe it! — how can you ask? Never 
will I believe it, and the man who repeats that 
base rumor is no friend of mine.” 

“God bless you for that word, Joachim ; 
I knew you could not doubt Joseph — but, oh, 
it’s terrible; you must do something at once.” 

Joachim turned away to conceal his em- 
barrassment, and set about to clear away the 
traces of his hasty preparations for flight, say- 
ing he would do his best, but there was nothing 
to be done before the morrow. There was the 
hasty sound of children’s steps stumbling up 
the stairs and pattering through the corridor, 
and a few moments later little Johnny burst 
into the room, dragging his little sister by the 
hand, both in a fit of tears and terror. 

“Oh, mamma,” they gasped, “the police- 
men have taken Uncle Joe away, Carl said 
they were going to put him in jail. There’s 
a man dead in the woods, and they say he 
did it. But he didn’t ; and, oh, papa, you won’t 
let them take him away, will you? Come, 
quick !” 

Their father turned away his face, and 
drooped his head over the table at which he 
stood. Mariann saw that he was moved, 
thinking him stricken with grief and pity, and, 


hushing the sobbing children, she left the room 
with them. Joachim, thus left to himself, 
drew his hand over his clammy forehead and 
sat down to collect himself. His face was 
pale, his eyes were inflamed and dull, and his 
brain was reeling with the storm of doubt, 
hope and terror which surged through his 
mind. His apprehensions, for a moment sub- 
dued, took hold on him anew in the stillness 
of the place, but through all the tumult of his 
breast he caught, like a desperate man, at the 
one thought of hope which stood out terrible, 
though comforting: justice had a victim in his 
place, he was as yet free and could gain time. 

In the large dining-room below, the do- 
mestics of the household were at length gath- 
ered for the belated supper. In their excite- 
ment and preoccupation with the events of the 
evening, they did not stop to notice the over- 
dose of salt in the soup, or the chestnut tint 
on the potatoes and the strong flavor in the 
stew, or, if they did, no one dared comment 
on the circumstance in the presence of Cora, 
who, making use of her privilege as cook and 
oldest domestic of the household, denounced 
the law and its officers, and hurled grim de- 
fiance at everyone that entertained the slight- 
est doubt as to Joseph Hichhof’s innocence. 


81 


Old Bernard felt the last remnant of appetite 
die within him at the news of Joseph’s arrest, 
and sat crest-fallen and pensive. Some of the 
young men delighted in telling blood-curdling 
stories, suiting the mood of the time, for the 
benefit of the girls, slyly blinking at their 
companions if one of them shuddered with a 
thrill of horror, or dropped a knife in won- 
der and amazement. 

Suddenly the door opened and the old 
shepherd came slowly trudging in, leaning 
on his long staff, his features stern and wan. 

“Hello, Nicholas !” somebody called, “what 
makes you so grim tonight? have you heard 
the news?” 

“Children, I have heard and seen enough 
in my days, but there will be more to tell by- 
and-by. God protect all honest men!” and 
Nicholas sullenly passed out into the kitchen 
and took possession of his big arm-chair by 
the fireplace. 

Cora hastened after him, eager to gain so 
strong an ally to her party and seeking con- 
firmation of her views from the old seer, in 
whose powers and wisdom she had implicit 
trust. Pouring for him a glass of her best 
and warmest, she sidled up to him, and in a 

a brother’s sacrifice 6 




confidential tone related what had happened 
and what the talk was about. 

The old man said nothing for a long time, 
but sat with his hands clasped around his 
staff, his snowy head drooped to his chest, and 
staring fixedly into the blaze of the hearth. 
There was a painful expression on his honest, 
noble features. 

“Oh, I saw it,” he exclaimed at length, 
with a painful quiver in his voice, “I saw it 
coming, the terrible doom, but I was helpless; 
who may command the fates? The old fiend 
has risen again, the old curse gripes its victims. 
The earth under our feet has drunk innocent 
blood before; the evil of the forefathers, like 
their virtues, lives through generations. I saw 
the phantom with the red hands last night, 
and that means blood, blood on the hands of 
Eichhof.” 

“Good heavens! Nicholas, what do you 
mean? how dare you say the word?” gasped 
the affrighted woman. “Do you mean to say 
that Joseph is guilty of murder? that he could 
do such a thing? that he could think of such 
a thing?” 

“I do not say that, I do not know, and what 
I fear I may not tell. If Joseph comes to 
harm, it will be the end of me; that stroke 


will blast the old oak and leave my place 
empty. Joseph was the youth of my old age, 
and the light of my lonely evening. The 
omens fall upon the house of Eichhof. The 
fiery banner of the skies waved over the Oak 
Farm and seemed to shroud it in flame and 
desolation. I know not, Joseph is of the 
house and of the family. Oh, why must I 
live to see this? Why must my eyes behold 
the signs of ruin and calamity, and I stand 
by helpless and trembling? I cannot avoid 
them, they haunt me, they flame out of the 
skies and rise from the graves of the dead.” 

“Come, man,” said Cora, who felt obliged 
to take the part of the comforter, “you are 
hungry and weakened, you must eat and take 
a glass of wine, then you will see more cheer- 
ful things in heaven and on earth.” 

But the old man continued brooding and 
despondent. “Nay, Cora,” he said, “I can- 
not eat; the bread would turn to ashes in 
my mouth, my soul is full of bitterness. Bid 
them send a man out to the fold, I shall not 
go out tonight.” 

The night was deepening, all sounds of life 
and labor had ceased; an occasional hooting 
of the night-bird, a low murmer from the 
stalls, or the rattling of a chain, was all that 




interrupted the silence on the premises of the 
Oak Farm. But old Nicholas still kept his 
place by the hearth, putting his visions together 
and endeavoring to riddle out the meaning 
of the fatal event. Strange and ominous 
things were running through his busy thoughts. 
Glimpses of dark possibilities flashed upon 
him out of the flickering blaze of the fire- 
brands. As the weary hours of the night wore 
slowly on, he seemed to read the last page of 
a sad and fateful story. 

But the old shepherd did not wake alone. 
That heavy night witnessed other sleepless eyes 
and anxious bosoms. The Master of Eichhof 
learned that to escape the hands of the law was 
not to escape the scourge of justice, that silent 
searching power which never sleeps. After 
brooding and struggling with himself till far 
into the night, he sought to wipe out all mem- 
ory of the day in sleep and forgetfulness. 
But he had poisoned the sweet draught of 
slumber. His downy bed was a rack to his 
restless and tormented mind. His closed eyes 
did not shut out his visions of injured inno- 
cence and the face of retribution. He sprang 
up from his bed and paced his room with a 
hasty, uncertain tread, then stepped to the 
window to breathe the cool night air. Through 


the bright, serene starlight of the beautiful 
summer’s night loomed the forest, stretch- 
ing darkly along the margin of the wide fields. 
The sight brought back to him the ghastly 
scene which those trees had witnessed, and 
he shook when he thought that their secret 
might be told. That scene with its horrid 
sounds of agony, the gasps and groans of the 
dying man, was branded on his memory. 
Through the dead silence the voices of his 
victims seemed to grow louder and more men- 
acing; he had not heeded the piteous pleading 
of the poor wretch who begged for life, now it 
was turned into a curse and a terrible con- 
demnation. And what was to become of his 
brother? Would he really come off so light- 
ly as he tried to make himself believe? Was 
he not putting him in a way to lifelong ruin 
and misery? There was time as yet to undo 
that piece of knavery and injustice, should he 
heed the voice of conscience? — 

Thus this strong man who had never known 
fear, and who was used to subduing others by 
his violent temper, found a power in his own 
bosom which he could not subdue, and before 
which he trembled with helpless terror and be- 
wilderment. His brain ached, his forehead 
was wet with the perspiration of mental agony. 


Driven to distraction by the persistence of his 
own thoughts and emotions, he sank into a 
chair, and as the morning dawned, his over- 
strained nature sought redress in a disturbed 
and fitful sleep. 

To Mariann the night brought fresh matter 
for trouble and anxiety. Left to the silence of 
the night and her own thoughts, she lived over 
again the painful occurrences of the evening. 
There w' ' no sleep for her heated imagina- 
tion, which in the darkness and solitude call- 
ed up dreadful pictures of the future. She 
could hear from the adjoining rooms the rest- 
less step of her husband, now and then she 
caught a low, inarticulate sound of distress 
that made her shudder with a strange feeling 
of alarm. It recalled to her the encounter of 
the evening, and now for the first time she 
became distinctly aware of his unfamiliar con- 
duct. What made him so reserved and re- 
tired, when she had expected he would be 
stirred with anger and indignation at the in- 
sult offered his name and family ? What made 
him so indifferent to the fate of his brother? 
She recalled his startled manner at meeting 
him in his room, his nervous tension, his un- 
accountable haste ; then the large sum of 
money — in his haste to get away he did not 




87 


even stoop to pick up the coins which he had 
dropped in pocketing the money; — what did 
it all mean? These thoughts came like a flash 
and she stifled a cry of anguish as she was 
suddenly seized by the appalling suspicion. 
She covered her face with her hands as if to 
shut out the frightful picture of the truth. 
She blamed herself for indulging so monstrous 
a suspicion; she seemed to herself to stand 
on the brink of a dark, deep and ruinous gulf, 
and cried to heaven in helpless dismay. 

Joseph, in the meantime passed the dis- 
mal hours of that hapless night in a dark, 
narrow cell, scarcely able to realize how he 
had got there. Oppressed by the weariness of 
grief and agitation he would fall into an un- 
easy drowse, only to be startled into conscious- 
ness again by some alarming dream. He would 
stare at the dreary walls of his confinement and 
shake himself to throw off the grasping spell, 
thinking himself oppressed by a hideous night- 
mare. But gradually the reality, more fear- 
ful than his dreams, would come back to him : 
the report of the shot which had led him in- 
to danger and possibly to ruin; his alarm 
and anguish at discovering the bleeding victim ; 
the evidence by which he had been dragged in- 
to the affair and fixed upon as the criminal; 




the cold, stern manner of the officers, as they 
led him away and closed the door of his cell 
with a “good night!” that sounded like bitter 
mockery. At times he was almost glad that 
the stroke had lighted on him and spared 
the family of his brother, and he resigned 
himself as a victim; again, all his feelings 
would rise in rebellion against the injustice 
and the shrewd cruelty of Joachim. But 
breathing a prayer for strength, he resolved 
that, come what might, nothing should wrench 
from him the secret locked in his bosom. The 
weary, hopeless morning found him in the 
same place and the same posture in which 
the officers of the law had left him, haggard 
and worn with waking 






Chapter VI. 

As the warder came in to bring the scanty 
breakfast, he was moved by the plight of his 
prisoner, whom he had long known and re- 
spected, and murmured a regret as he found 
the supper of the evening before untasted. 

“Take courage, friend,” he said good- 
naturedly, “and a bite of breakfast ; many an- 
other man wouldn’t take this so to heart. 
That tailor was a hopeless wretch and would 
have come to a bad end sooner or later, only 
it’s a pity to get such an honest man into such a 
scrape on account of the rogue. But let me 
give you a pointer. They’ll be coming to take 
you before the justice for the preliminaries. 
Now take the advice of an old hand at the 
business, and don’t get yourself tangled up 
as some of them do. You have a fairly good 
case, and you will come off best by just mak- 
ing a clean breast of the matter and looking 
them square in the face. Don’t deny any- 
thing or try to dodge any questions, that will 
only make things worse and get them against 
you. That Steiner was a notorious case, 
everybody knows he was locked up more than 
once for his knaveries, and these men of the 


court have no sympathy for poachers. It’s 
only a pity you didn’t dip your gun a little 
lower and tickle him about the legs; it would 
have been better for you. But this is a com- 
mon affair, and these men know an honest 
face from a rogue. — But you understand me,” 
he said, interrupting his rambling talk as he 
marked the pale and drawn features of his 
prisoner, “no offense, only a friendly hint.” 

“I understand, my friend,” was the reply, 
“and I thank you, but I can’t confess anything. 
I’m not guilty of the deed.” 

“Oho!” exclaimed the gray-headed turn- 
key, “there we have it already! Now, on my 
soul, I didn’t expect this. That is the old 
song of our common jail birds, they are al- 
ways the most innocent of mankind; we’re 
used to that ; but I thought you would be more 
sensible. I only remember one fellow in my 
charge, who didn’t deny anything, but good- 
humoredly confessed to all the charges they 
brought against him; and he was the only 
one, too, that ever turned out to be innocent. 
He just tricked the policemen and sat out his 
sentence to help an old chum out of a pinch, 
who wanted to get married a few days after 
and didn’t know how to fix it up with the 
judge. But let me tell you, friend, you’ve got 


the wrong trail, you’ll never pull out that 
way.” 

“I can’t help; but I tell you again, I am 
innocent.” 

“And I tell you again that it won’t do you 
any good,” persisted the old man testily, of- 
fended at the ill reception of his friendly ad- 
vise. “That game is as old as the law, and 
the judges can play it better than the other 
fellows, and they always have the trumps in 
the end. But if you have made up your mind to 
that, I wash my hands. Every man may salt 
his own broth, and I wish you joy to yours.” 
Muttering sullenly and shaking his gray 
head, he left the cell and gave the bolt an 
angry thrust on the outside. After a short 
time he returned with an officer to conduct 
the prisoner to the local justice for the pre- 
liminary examination. 

The justice, a man of rather a genial dis- 
position, received Joseph with the respect due 
to his character and the reputation of his 
name, questioning him with great considerate- 
ness und using, as he thought, all means to 
make the confession as easy as possible. 

Joseph, distracted by a tumult of con- 
flicting emotions, and fearing to drop a word 
in his defense which might involve the family 




which at any cost he wished to shield, gave 
little satisfaction to the questioner. In spite of 
all warnings and exhortations, he refused to 
answer any question bearing directly on the 
deed under discussion, and persisted in the 
declaration of his innocence. His one answer 
was : 

“I am ignorant of the deed; on my con- 
science I cannot confess to it.” 

“Listen, my dear sir,” said the justice 
whose patience finally gave out, “let me give 
you a last warning. This attitude of yours is 
provoking and will not profit you anything, 
on the contrary, in court you will forfeit by 
it the only chance of a lenient interpretation 
of the motives. You will aggravate the ap- 
pearance of wilful murder which you may a- 
void by a frank statement of the circumstances 
and provocation. You must bear in mind, that 
there is a mass of evidence in support of the 
charge against you and there will be more 
forthcoming. There is no room for subter- 
fuge. You were seen by several witnesses bn 
the place immediately after the event, before 
the body was cold; your own conduct, ac- 
cording to the officers was too plainly that of 
a guilty man; there was but one weapon on 
the spot, which you and everybody else re- 


cognize as yours ; all cirumstances point 
but to one conclusion. In the face of all this 
you will do well to take my advice and give 
up your course of denial and obstinacy. You 
will now have the goodness to follow us to 
the scene of the murder for the inquest.” 

Joseph quailed at the word. He began to 
realize more vividly the frightful ordeal that 
awaited him, and coming, as it did, on the 
heels of the night’s experience and the ex- 
haustion of the foregoing day, it proved al- 
most more than he could bear. 

“Are you ready Mr. Malten?” continued 
the justice, turning sharply toward his reporter. 

“Yes, if your Honor please, I have every- 
thing in readiness for proceeding in the taking 
of the testimony, and the presence of the 
County coroner is the only thing lacking.” 

“I had summoned him to be present at 
seven o’clock without fail and it is now near 
eight,” responded the justice looking annoyed 
at his watch. 

“I beg a thousand pardons, your Honor, 
if I caused you any delay,” exclaimed the 
physician, entering. “An urgent case detained 
me until now at the bedside of Count Pahlen 
in Weilheim. But is it true indeed, what the 
people are talking about, a murder in our 


peaceful neighborhood ! And the murderer — . 
Ah, Joseph, you here too? Most probably 
about the murder? Why, the crime is alleged 
to have been committed in the vicinity of the 
Oak Farm.” 

“Pray, dear doctor, do not let us lose any 
time,” interposed the justice impatiently.” 
Joseph, here, is suspected for very strong rea- 
sons of the homicide and shall, in charge of 
the constable, go ahead of us to the scene of 
the deed, to the wayside shrine of the Oak 
Farm.” 

“Impossible !” exclaimed the physician, and 
glared through his flashing eye glasses at the 
other, incredulously. “You are pleased to jest 
with me, your Honor.” 

“I’m not at all inclined to jest and beg of 
you earnestly that we attend at once to the 
matter in hand.” 

“But Joseph ” 

“Is, as stated suspected of the murder, 
indeed, as good as convicted. Let us set out; 
constable and you, Melchior!” 

“If your Honor please,” assented the con- 
stable, raising his hand in salutation upon 
his helmet, as prescribed. “Are we going to 
take the prisoner along or — ” 

A significant look at his own hands com- 
pleted the sentence. 


“Hm!” grumbled the justice doubtfully and 
afterward looked grimly at Joseph as the lat- 
ter was looking ahead. That official was pro- 
voked at the accused by reason of the work at 
such an unusual hour and because in spite of 
his kind words, Joseph persisted in denying his 
guilt, and provoked at the county physician, 
who manifestly took sides with the obdurate 
peasant. A well-meant hawking of the doctor 
and an audible, whispered “But, dear friend !” 
hence put an end to his considerations. 

“You are right, Melchior; shackle the pris- 
oner, in such a case of obduracy,” — the justice 
laid special stress on the word — “it is impossi- 
ble to tell whether the latter may not make an 
unexpected attempt at escape. By reason of 
his accurate knowledge of the place double 
prudence is imperative.” 

When the constable approached Joseph 
and wanted to put the handcuffs on his wrists, 
the latter stepped back in amazement. His 
broad chest heaved, and every muscle of his 
face, that was suddenly suffused with a dark 
red, twitched, and for an instant it looked 
as if a statement, almost perforce, was about 
to escape his lips. A convulsive sob, a repress- 
ed groan — and then he held out his hands and 
permitted himself to be handcuffed without 
any objection. 


“I hope, dear doctor, that it is agreeable 
to you, that I have sent the team ahead ?” 
the justice inquired as they were going out. 
“You know, I was at Muenster, yesterday, 
and came home only after midnight. Thus 
it is a matter of necessity with me on account 
of lost sleep to take a stroll out in the fresh 
morning air.” 

“Excellent!” assented the physician, “the 
anxious hours I spent beside the sickbed were 
not of an agreeable nature, either, and this 
case here has now perplexed me completely. 
The cool morning breeze may clear my head 
again, I think. But please listen to me, Judge,” 
he added, as both the gentlemen were walk- 
ing along the street and the good-natured 
man noticed how Joseph, walking beside the 
constable was affected by the inquisitive 
glances, the frivolous and loud remarks of 
the gathering crowd. “I fear we are on a 
very wrong scent. Joseph certainly does not 
look like a criminal.” 

“You look upon the matter as a layman 
and from an entirely erroneous standpoint,” 
said the irritated justice. “I shall indeed 
cheerfully admit that Joseph, to me known 
as a strictly just man, is no intentional mur- 
derer, and that the miserable loafer, that in 




our legal records is characterized as a real 
rogue, probably provoked him, or perhaps, 
indeed, attacked him, but why does the man 
not tell the truth simply and straightforward- 
ly and thus save himself and us the trouble? 
I know too well what all this means. These 
Westphalian thick-headed fellows” — the 
county justice was a Pomeranian, — “p° ssess a 
certain amount of peasant’s pride, a vainglori- 
ous conceit, which would suffice for any noble- 
man. He feels too high a sense of honor to 
have laid violent hands on such a vagrant, 
tramping vagabond and to be held responsible 
for the latter’s death, and hence he will deny 
his guilt to the utmost.” 

The physician shook his head while listen- 
ing to his companion’s statement ; and de- 
spite its apparent justification it was by no 
means clear or evident to him. He, a son of 
the red soil, knew them better, these thick- 
headed people, and he would stake his own 
life, especially for Joseph’s honor and honesty. 
But at the first word he gave utterance to, 
the judge encountered him with such 
acrimony that, he preferred to keep his opin- 
ion to himself. Thus the two gentlemen, in 
sullen silence, strode over the morn’s quiet 
a brother’s sacrifice 7 


fields on whose flowers, dazzling with dew, 
and on the flashing verdant grass, the sun’s 
rays disported, while aloft in the deep blue 
sky the fervid lark was soaring and from its 
dazzling distance was caroling forth its change- 
ful melodies adown, softly sweet and piercing. 

The nearer the scene of the act was ap- 
proached the denser became the crowd of the 
inquisitive who, apprised of the commission 
of a deed of violence in the vicinity, had as- 
sembled and in vain had attempted to 
break through the boundary lines estab- 
lished by the servants of justice — the Ge- 
denberg constable having returned to his sta- 
tion there in the gray dawn of the morning. 
Everybody moved aside when the prisoner 
and his escort appeared. 

“That’s he, the murderer ! the manslayer !” 
was whispered here and there. 

“Joseph, a manslayer? A son of the Oak 
Farm, a felon? Impossible!” 

“Why impossible ? Quite other and strang- 
er things have been possible.” 

“No, children, you may say what you 
want, but if Joseph has killed any one, then I, 
too, did it,” declared the head farm hand of 
the Meadow Farm, when the ranks in the 
rear of the arrivals had closed again. “He’s 


99 


a blockhead, that’ll venture to utter such a 
word again !” 

And then he stood up firmly in front of 
some of the main talkers as if he were ready 
to knock down with his stout fists every 
one of the opposite opinion. 

The scene at the base of the old and 
venerable cross was still unchanged. Stiff 
and rigid, with eyes wide open, the hideously 
bloated face overcast with an ashen grey, yel- 
lowish pallor, the dead man lay in his blood. 
Never before had the low vulgarity of his 
features struck the two gentlemen as just 
then, and involuntarily their eyes sought out 
Joseph’s countenance; they observed the 
frank, open, and honest expression, and they 
also saw how he shuddered at sight of the 
corpse and that he sunk his eyes from interior 
pain. 

At the judge’s suggestion the court clerk took 
his papers and arranged them on the kneeling 
stool, with pen and ink at hand, while the 
physician who acted as coroner examined the 
fatal wound. The bullet was soon found; 
it had penetrated the lung laterally, and 
caused almost instantaneous death. The justice 
balanced the murderous shot scrutinously in 
his hand, it fitted accurately into the discharged 




rifle lying beside the corpse. The rifle was the 
personal property of Joseph. He did not at 
all attempt to deny this fact, and just so he 
identified the shot bag and the powder horn, 
that the constable of Gedenberg had found on 
the edge of the ditch, among the reeds and 
rushes early in the morning, and admitted their 
ownership. 

“And yet you insist that you did not com- 
mit the deed?” interrogated the justice. 

Even the doctor became serious, his eyes 
were fixed with an anxious inquiring expres- 
sion upon the countenance of the accused. 

“I am innocent!” was all that Joseph 
answered. 

The official then directed his attention to 
the two hired men, that had passed the place 
the night before and met the probable culprit 
near the corpse. Their testimony as to how 
troubled the latter had looked and how de- 
spondently he had acted, testimony that was 
given quite fluently and full of conviction by 
Martin and by Bernd reluctantly and obstin- 
ately, all tending to strengthen supicion. 

“And even if he should have given the 
wretched fellow a blow too much, what busi- 
ness, anyhow, had that wretch to trespass 
on our place?” 

“How so?” quickly asked the justice. 


“Well, we recently found, over there by 
the hedge, a large wheelbarrow and a couple 
of freshly cut sheaves of wheat, the one lying 
half way in the water and the other squarely 
over the roadway. If the fellow was bent up- 
on thievery — and that he has been doing as late 
as the last rye harvest, only that no one knew 
where the missing sheaves were — so then it was 
only Joseph’s genuine legal right to riddle his 
hide. That the scoundrel fell down at once 
and staid dead, was nothing but his wicked- 
ness, his downright wickedness.” 

“Now then!” exclaimed the justice and 
looked at the doctor in triumph. “Why here 
we have the motive! Joseph, will you even 
now deny it? The matter cannot be made 
any clearer. You went forth without further 
ado, caught the thief on your brother’s field 
and, to be sure, with deplorable haste allowed 
your feelings, to carry you away. Don’t be 
obstinate any longer, Joseph, acknowledge 
your fault. We know indeed, that it was not 
committed with premeditation, that it was only 
the fervor of the momentary excitement that 
led you to do the deed, which it would have 
been impossible for you to have committed, 
deliberately, in cold blood.” 

“I am innocent!” repeated Joseph with 
head bowed down. 


Just then came Joachim, irresolutely walk- 
ing along from the House, to which the 
judge had sent the policeman. With his knees 
tottering, pale and aweary from loss of sleep, 
his eyes cast down upon the ground, he stood 
before the official. 

“I regret very much, Joachim, in a matter 
so disagreeable, to be obliged to trouble you. 
But unfortunately there is more than an or- 
dinary, urgent suspicion against your brother, 
that constrains me to take him into custody 
before trial.” 

“My dear Judge,” began Joachim after sev- 
eral futile attempts to say a word, “Mightn’t 
there be a mistake ” 

“A very natural assumption on your part,” 
interposed Oldberg, the justice, “but legally or 
juridically not tenable. Every sign points to 
your brother; there is formed by them an un- 
broken chain of evidence the accuracy of which 
it is almost impossible to doubt. And un- 
fortunately, too, Joseph renders the progress 
of the cause more difficult by his continued 
denial. Perhaps you might induce ” 

“I, your Honor? I?” 

Was it a cry, a groan, or a laugh that was 
wrenched forth from Joachim’s breast with a 
ring that pierced bone and marrow ? Probably 






a medley of all of them that struck the hand- 
cuffed brother’s ear with discord. His bowed 
head rose up, his sad eyes were fixed in warn- 
ing upon his brother, the lips opened as if 
for a solemn inquiry, when at the edge of the 
field appeared Mariann. A peculiar, almost 
fierce, expression rested on her distracted, 
grief-stricken face, otherwise so handsome, 
and her eyes swollen with weeping were anxi- 
ously directed to the prisoner. 

“O Joseph, Joseph !” she exclaimed with a 
heart-rending cry of grief, “you are innocent, 
I know it. You did not do the deed.” 

His raised head sank, the already opened 
lips closed again; the whole frame of the 
powerful man shook, quivered, from the crown 
of his head to the soles of his feet. His wife’s 
cry seemed to have touched every nerve in 
Joachim’s body; he placed his hand over his 
heart and helplessly groped for the trunk of 
the linden tree in order to get a firm hold. 
And doing so he raised his head, and for an 
instant, during a single pulsation of the heart, 
the two brothers’ glances met : Joseph’s glance 
firm, nearly menacing, Joachim’s shy, and anx- 
iously evasive and shifting; but in that one 
glance each had recognized the truth and ex- 
changed thoughts. 


Joachim, the Master of the Oak Farm, 
knew that his brother Joseph understood the 
entire state of affairs and knew the real cri- 
minal, that he was silent for Mariann’s sake 
and for the children’s sake; 'and Joseph knew 
that his brother, his own bodily brother would 
conceal the truth and let him expiate the crime. 
Just indignation seized him, and if his wander- 
ing eyes had not chanced to rest on the thorn- 
crowned Redeemer’s head, he would have been 
driven to cry out: 

“There stands the murderer! Seize the 
coward !” 

“We have no use for any sensational 
scenes here,” said the justice, irritably. “Ol- 
mann, take away the woman!” 

“Tet me escort her,” interposed the doctor, 
“it is the Mistress of the Oak Farm, Joachim’s 
wife!” 

While the physician went to Mariann and 
kindly sought to calm her, County Justice Old- 
berg closed the record. Further clews were 
not discoverable, an unknown perpetrator was 
not conceivable, Joseph had done the deed, 
everything necessarily pointed to him. 




Chapter VII. 

It was the day before the trial of the 
suspect. A dismal, gloomy November day. 
The bulky clouds driven by a cold northeast 
wind, were passing over city and country and 
with the dim masses of snow, of which the 
first glistening flakes were even then eddying, 
whirling in the air, threatened to bury every 
sign of life, or verdure. Gradually it grew 
denser, and ever denser, drifting, curling came 
the snow from the gray sky, and just then the 
first flakes danced in front of the barred win- 
dow, behind whose small window panes Joseph 
was standing, wrapped in deep thought. 

He had already been imprisoned three 
months for his trial, on the morrow a verdict 
was to be found. The most cautious and care- 
ful investigation had elicited nothing new. The 
matters of fact were established by the ev- 
idence, not a link was missing in the closely 
woven chain of evidence which was to throttle 
the good name of the heretofore irreproach- 
able accused man. Joseph had hearings re- 
peatedly, so that he frequently, just to avoid 
this torment, was at the very point of telling 
the truth. But should, could his lips accuse 
his own brother? and brand him not only as a 


murderer, but also as a coward and liar? 
Would not Joachim sooner or later come to 
his senses and, impelled bv his conscience, as- 
sume the consequences of his rash deed? And 
if not? He, Joseph, was a single man. What 
did it amount to, if it be said : Joseph was con- 
victed and sentenced? No loving wife would 
languish for him as a convict, no innocent 
child would weep for its lost father and try to 
hide the disgrace of his name from mankind. 

No, it was better thus. And yet it was 
hard, unutterably hard. He was to bid fare- 
well to life, to meadow and field, to the open 
heath and extended plain, to his peaceful little 
home, to all, that was dear to him on earth, 
and only for the sake of a brother who 
had once before bereft him of his highest 
and best possession and who in his proud 
and dominant selfishness had added to his 
abundant possessions the solitary sheep of the 
poor; for a brother’s sake, who in the ardor 
of his uncontrolled anger had committed a 
crime and who actually had the face now to 
look on in cold blood, and see another suffer 
in his place. 

Oh, it was maddening for the most patient, 
those days and those still longer nights when 
such thoughts like mocking imps were pran- 


cing about the prisoner’s bed and drove all 
sleep from his couch! Often did he long for 
the end, even a violent end, just to find repose 
for himself, even though his prosecutor had 
informed him that from a lack of premeditated 
murderous intent he was safe from death by 
hanging and yet owing to his obdurate denial 
of his guilt a severe measure of punishment 
was likely to be imposed upon him. 

“But they cannot convict me as long as 
I’m innocent!” exclaimed Joseph, beside him- 
self with emotion. 

The attorney simply raised his eyebrows. 

“In such a clear, evident case,” — he pro- 
ceeded. 

“O then I’d rather die, a thousand times 
rather die than pass many years in the peniten- 
tiary!” groaned Josepj 

“Now then make a repentant confession, 
Joseph. In your particular case you simply 
hamper the prosecution by your continued 
silence. You are an honest, just man, who 
everywhere is given the best reputation and 
character, and who has not in the whole vi- 
cinity a single enemy to rise up against him. 
Just think how much differently, with what 
greater power I should be able to present your 
case at the bar of justice, if I might say : ‘Be- 


hold here, this brave and honest son of a brave 
and honest family, whose name has never suf- 
fered a stain! A wanton trespass upon his 
brother’s property excited him, the manifest 
resistance, the brazen taunt of a notorious idler 
and drunkard led him to the limit of his pa- 
tience, and thus in an instant when he was not 
under self-control, to commit a crime the pos- 
sibility of which he did not even think of an 
instant before! Is such a man in the defense 
of his property, possibly of his life, a murder- 
er?’ Let me handle the case in this manner, 
Joseph, and I’ll give you my word for it that 
the jurymen, who are for the most part people 
of your station in life and who are only too 
glad to recognize the law of self-defense and 
preservation as a complete justification, will 
pass a lenient verdict and the court will impose 
a small penalty; otherwise, of course — ” 

The attorney shrugged his shoulders and 
looked at his client significantly. But Joseph 
knew of no other answer than: 

“I have nothing to confess; I am innocent.” 

And that was his answer even when the 
prosecutor urged him once more, even at the 
eleventh hour, to admit the truth and not to 
let the last anchor of hope slip through his 
hands. 


109 


“I wish indeed that I had never accepted 
your case, Joseph,” his attorney remarked, 
very much provoked when he left his cell with- 
out having been able to accomplish anything. 
“Such a lame defense without enthusiasm, 
without any spirit, will harm you as well as 
me more than it will benefit.” 

With a bitter smile Joseph had looked on 
the closing door and then turned to the window 
to contemplate the isolated, fluttering flakes of 
snow as at first slowly then faster and faster 
like a downy storm they descended. 

Approaching steps again resounded in the 
hall. They stopped in front of his door, the 
key turned in the door, and the priest of 
his native village entered, a benign look- 
ing, worthy priest, about sixty years of 
age. On more than on one occasion the zeal- 
ous clergyman had visited the prisoner since 
his detention in the country prison, at Alt- 
haus, and impressively advised him to confess 
his crime and, in that way, satisfy the spiritual 
as well as the temporal requirements of jus- 
tice. He admonished him to take his brother as 
an example. The proud, inaccessible, and 
haughty master of the Oak Farm had humbled 
his pride and had not only, to the edification 
of the entire congregation, attended the burial 






of the man shot, but he, personally, looking 
more like a corpse than a living being had 
faithfully provided for the bereaved widow 
and children, so that things had never pros- 
pered so well with her as now. The priest 
was surprised to observe that, at mention of 
his brother, an infinitely dark bitterness be- 
gloomed his features, old quarrels, old feuds 
and discords were accordingly un forgotten. 
And as he repeatedly endeavored to touch his 
parishioner’s heart, the accused answered him 
in the same way : 

“I am innocent, Reverend Father, I have 
nothing to confess !” 

On his last visit the priest had endeavored 
to take him to task with zealous indignation 
for his obduracy and severely to stir him up 
by touching on his tenderer sentiments, but. his 
strenuous purpose died on his lips, before 
Joseph’s clear glance — a glance so full of in- 
dignation and reproach, of mysterious fire and 
mental pain, that for days the good pastor 
could not get rid of the haunting recollec- 
tion. Wherever he went by day or by night 
that glance of the unhappy man hovered be- 
fore him and gave him no rest until, the over- 
whelming weight of the proof adduced, had 
again extinguished that impression. Today 


Ill 


the reverend gentleman had come to town for 
the purpose of making his influence effective 
with the accused, if possible, before tomorrow’s 
trial before the jury. 

“This is the hardest errand of my life, 
Joseph,” said he, as he pressed his former 
penitent’s hand, and with a serious look had 
scrutinized the sorrowful features, “I should 
never have believed that you could become so 
bitter toward me. Behold, my son, I wished 
to make you happy. I would even joyfully 
accompany you to the saffold, if it had to be, 
were I only possessed of the certainty ” 

“Dear Father,” Joseph interrupted the 
moment’s silence, “I can only repeat to you, 
what I have already said before: I am inno- 
cent!” 

“Yea, you did say it, and lately I came 
near giving credence to your words against 
my better judgment; but the matter is so 
simple, so clear, the chain of evidence so 
thoroughly connected, without a gap or miss- 
ing link, that it were insane to attempt to doubt 
it. I do not know who persuaded you of the 
unfortunate idea to make one and the same 
uniform response to one and all inquiries, T 
am innocent !’ This obstinacy is not your own. 
You have been all your life a good person, 


never wavered between right and wrong ; 
whence then this obduracy, this voluntary 
hardening of heart? Do you not see that you 
are not only endangering the salvation of your 
soul by this stubborn denying, but also aggra- 
vating your case before the worldly judges? 
That one of my parishioners, constrained by 
circumstances, and in a scarcely responsible 
state of mind might have been guilty of a 
bloody deed, that possibility I shall concede, 
and would have endeavored to have borne the 
consequences of the unhappy moment with 
him; but that one of them, and that one you, 
you, O Absalom, my son ! My son, Absalom !” 
the aged priest finished, sobbing, and raised his 
hands above the head of Joseph, standing op- 
posite. 

Joseph was deeply moved. Every facial 
muscle was twitching, every limb of his body 
quivered. 

“Enter into yourself, Joseph, there is still 
time. Expiate your crime by an open confes- 
sion, I shall weep and pray with you that God 
may be merciful to you and not visit the in- 
nocently spilt blood upon you? But do not 
stamp your crime with the brand of perjury 
in court.” 

“Dear Father,” said Joseph in a voice chok- 


ing with tears, “do you believe that I have 
suffered ?” 

“Yes, my son, that I believe; the traces of 
your mental agony are clearly legible on ^our 
countenance. Hence Joseph, once more I ap- 
peal to you : Come to Him who helps in need, 
and ease your burdened heart.” 

“For me there is no aid, kind Father; 
I ” 

As the unfortunate was rendered mute by 
the overpowering intensity of his emotions, 
the priest quickly interposed: 

“No help? O Joseph, where is your faith? 
Does not our divine Savior invite all to come 
to Him that labor and are burdened? Come, 
help is ready for you!” 

A bitter smile passed over the prisoner’s 
lips. 

“For the murdered and assassin, yes; but 
not for the innocent!” 

“Joseph !” 

The word sounded almost like an exorcism, 
like an adjuration, a wail of woe from the deep- 
est recesses of the priest’s heart. Priest and 
prisoner eyed each other, fixedly. An instant 
of distressful, almost overwhelming silence 
followed. Then Father Heidfeldt stretched 
out his arms convulsively and stammered: 

A brother’s sacrifice 8 


“Joseph, you are not, cannot be guilty!” 

With a sigh of relief and tears of joy glit- 
tering in his mournful eyes, Joseph grasped 
the priest’s extended hands and said: 

“This is the aid that God has prepared for 
me, dear Father. I had to have one person 
who believed in my innocence, If I would not 
succumb and sink under my present embarrass- 
ment. Now then I shall never more lose cour- 
age, never more lapse into doubt or despon- 
dency. And, furthermore, God will not forsake 
me.” 

“But, Joseph,” after a little while, the priest 
resumed, “you are certainly able to specify 
some circumstance that would lead to your 
exoneration and discharge, and to the discovery 
of the real perpetrator. It is your duty, your 
obligation to God and man to acknowledge 
every, even the most trifling incident, that 
might tend to a clearing up of this mysterious 
occurrence.” 

“For God’s mercy’s sake, dear Father, do 
not urge me any further. I am innocent ; that 
is all that I may and dare say.” 

“I do not understand you, my son,” and 
the priest, discouraged, shook his head, “you 
surely know more than you are willing to 
admit.” 


“Do not continue in that strain, Reverend 
Father, do not keep up that line of argument,” 
groaned the prisoner. 

“But I’m firmly convinced of your inno- 
cence/’ the priest proceeded. “And yet of 
what use will my conviction, my full faith, be 
to you? The court, the jury will find you 
guilty, if you do not speak out.” 

“I must, needs bear it and I shall bear it, 
dear Father. You believe in me and that is 
enough for me; that shall support me in the 
difficult hour.” 

When the priest with the darkening twi- 
light left the prison, his steps tottered, and his 
face seemed to have grown ten years older. 




Chapter VIII. 

Did there ever fall to the lot of the Oak 
Farm a sadder evening than this of the day 
before the trial by court and jury, ever since 
the mighty crowns of the lofty trees overshad- 
owed the broad, landed estate? It seemed as 
if a dark secret hovered over the wintry farm, 
a mysterious secret which invisibly but heavi- 
ly oppressed every heart, and let all life and 
energy die out. Man-servants and maid-servants 
passed to and fro with downcast, embarrassed 
features, not one oi them ventured to speak 
a loud word, and even the very children, that 
before had frolicked joyously through kitchen 
and threshing floor, were keenly sensitive 
to the pressure of impending harm and timid- 
ly huddled together into a corner. The mistress 
of the Oak Farm, whose bright, pleasant face 
formerly spread a vivid light round about her, 
moved as if in a dream, her cheeks pale and 
her eyes red with weeping. Every loud sound 
convulsed her with fright, every unexpected 
word relating to the disaster drove her to sud- 
den sobbing and tears. And the farmer, Jo- 
achim, the master of the Oak Farm? 

The farmer, who had been every inch 




an old war horse and had always displayed 
the frank manly courage of the hereditary 
Saxon, was going about, since his brother’s ar- 
rest, like a convicted and sentenced felon. The 
consciousness of a stain resting upon his 
name had made his stiff neck still stiffer, 
changed the hard lineaments completely into a 
brazen-face and banished every smile from his 
lips, and on his countenance there was an ex- 
pression of fierceness, wildness, and nervous- 
ness, that filled all with terror. At unguarded 
moments he had been observed to cry out a- 
loud and to strike his head against the wall, 
to give vent to the despair which he felt at 
his heart. Then again he was seen rushing 
out upon the heath, into the darkest night, 
without any aim, without any purpose, and 
only to return home late next day, bare-head- 
ed, unkempt and clothes torn. 

“How the master of the Oak Farm takes 
it to heart !” remarked the people and looked 
with sympathy upon the brother of the ac- 
cused. 

So, too, that afternoon when the first snow- 
flakes drifted down from the leaden gray 
clouds, he had jumped up suddenly and rushed 
out only to return with approaching night to 
the Oak Farm. When Joachim strode across 


the thrashing-floor, he mechanically stopped, 
here grabbed for the mouth of a lowing cow, 
and there slapped a snorting horse on the 
back. A rope with which the hired men had 
hoisted the heavy grain bags, lay in his way 
and in the semi-darkness lit up only by a poor 
stable lantern, he had almost stumbled over 
it. He bent down to it to pick it up and hang 
it in its proper place above the feed-chest. 
Its end got loose, and while he was winding 
it up again, a loop was formed. 

“Oh !” groaned Joachim, “wouldn’t it be 
the best thing to do, if I put the rope around 
my neck, and made an end of all this agony! 
Joseph is all right, he can sleep restfully in 
prison ; he has no gnawing worm of conscience 
where other people have a heart. But I, — I !” 

“Give honor to the truth ! Relieve your 
conscience and confess your deed !” whispered 
his good angel in the gentlest voice to him. 

Joachim felt his forehead. A recollection 
of their common childhood, of the countless 
hours of innocent joys passed over his soul. 
He was afifected, softened — and then it was 
as if a wild mocking laugh was resounding 
from the depths of the stable and a malicious 
demon bantered: 

“So then, you want to confess, after such 


long silence? Will you add to your crime 
even yet the contempt and scorn of the people ? 
It was nothing for you to have shot the beg- 
garly tailor, but they will point their fingers 
at you for having left your brother to atone, 
to suffer for you. Ha, how Joseph shall 
triumph over you ; how, in his hypocrisy, he 
will openly sympathize with you and secretly 
laugh at you ! And yet, you are the heir, you 
are proprietor ! Show them that you are Jo- 
achim, the master of the Oak Farm !” 

“I am the proprietor, I am the master!" 
echoed Joachim and stepped forth with a firm 
foot, flinging the rope into the farthermost 
corner. 

He went farther, to tne kitchen. There 
everything was in readiness, all arranged for 
the labors of the next day. The domestics 
were sitting together around the hearth. The 
maids were busy washing dishes. The con- 
versation, carried on in subdued voices, here 
and there, was silenced by the entrance of the 
master. All of them looked down timidly at 
his approach. 

“Carl,” began Joachim, without looking at 
any of them, “it is settled: Promptly at one 
o’clock the light carriage is to be at the door.” 

“Certainly, Master, but I shall say again, it 


would have been better in this weather for 
man and beast, if we had driven out today.” 

“I don’t want to drive out till tomorrow. 
I don’t want to stay in town overnight. And 
we shall get there early enough, too. If we 
start at four o’clock, in spite of the snow- 
covered roads, we shall get to the station about 
six, and at half-past six the train leaves and by 
eight we shall be at our destination. But let 
none of you dare,” — he looked threateningly 
around the circle — “to speak with the inquisi- 
tive town people! Whoever is summoned by 
the court, you, Bernard, and you, Martin, let 
him tell what he has to say, not more and not 
less. Do you understand?” 

Without waiting for an answer Joachim 
passed along toward the door of an upper 
room, while among the domestics eager, heated 
talk, for and against Joseph occupied their at- 
tention. 

Several hours later when the domestics had 
long since retired to their couches, the door 
of the room was gently opened. Joachim, with 
cautious tread, came forth. He, however, re- 
treated with a suppressed outcry, for, from 
in front of the dying embers of the fire a bent 
form, that of Nicholas Hinnerk, arose, whose 
expressionless eyes in the uncertain light of a 


blubber lamp seemed to stare at Joachim and 
his sunken, withered mouth stammered in 
broken sentences : 

“Away, away with thee, thou spirit of evil ! 
— Do not afflict me — not now — not this hour. 
Night has terror enough for me without thee. 
— Joseph did not do it, I tell thee. He is in- 
nocent. If thou wilt not give me the name of 
the murderer — and thou knowest him, oh, thou 
knowest him, why dost thou persecute me? — 
Let me alone — let me alone!” 

His voice died out in a whining moan. 
Spitz, that was watching his master’s every 
motion closely, at the last words let forth a 
dismal moaning howl and vainly endeavored 
to lick the deprecatingly extended hands. 

Shuddering, trembling in every limb and cold 
perspiration starting from every pore on his 
body, the master of the Oak Farm had listened 
to the confused talk of his shepherd. He 
wished to flee and could not, his feet were as 
if pinned down by magic. When finally Hin- 
nerk sank back exhausted into his easy chair, 
life and motion gradually returned to him. 
With a despairing gesture, shaking off the 
fearful apprehension that had crept over him 
like a spell, Joachim slowly went back and 
closed the door noiselessly behind him. Then 
there was silence again, deep silence over the 
Oak Farm. 


Chapter IX. 

In the yard around the courthouse of the 
provincial town there was a dense mass of 
people crowding one another. People of every 
station in life, of all classes and trades were 
hurrying thither, to attend the court’s jury 
trial, which today promised to be an extraor- 
dinarily interesting one. Ladies of the ultra- 
aristocracy slipped in through sidedoors, known 
only to the initiated, to be escorted by the 
warden up the little winding stairs to a place 
within and on the platform. Long before the 
hour appointed, the female jury had convened 
and decided as to the life and death of the 
accused, even before the opening of the court’s 
session. 

The hall below was also filled, the public 
crowded up to the very edge of the legal bar 
or forum. With the clock’s stroke of nine, 
there appeared the judges and the jurymen, of 
the latter of which the counsel for the prisoner 
as occasion offered, challenged and rejected 
several. Counselor Holsten was most circum- 
spect, in securing as many country men on the 
jury as possible, because in his opinion, the 
latter understood the strict punishment for 


trespassing on another’s property and would 
excuse its maintenance by force. He did not, 
however consider that the repeated denials on 
the part of the accused would be likely to pre- 
possess these very men of simple minds and 
frank, open brows against him. They did not 
understand the manslaughter, but the false- 
hood. 

Finally, after the prescribed legal formali- 
ties were carried out, Presiding Judge von 
Hesky opened the proceedings. Every eye 
was strained toward the door through which 
the accused was to enter. As his name was 
called out, Joseph appeared and an “Ah!” of 
amazement and disappointment rang out from 
the lips of the inquisitive on-lookers. Was this 
man then really a criminal? Did this face, 
rendered pale and thin by the long detention 
in prison before the trial, bear the mark of 
depravity? And yet it must needs be so. A 
suppressed murmuring pervaded the hall. 
There were loud exclamations of sympathy, 
horror, and contempt. Joseph paid no attention 
to them, going along with calm, steady step, 
once only, noticeably, he looked startled, when 
he saw on a side table the blood-stained gar- 
ments of the dead man lying beside his own 
hunting outfit. Those standing nearest, nudged 
one another and exchanged significant looks. 


124 


After order was again, in a measure, re- 
stored, the clerk of the court read the bill of 
indictment, and then the prosecuting attorney 
Berner, a stern unrelenting man, took a hand 
and made a long opening address. In brief, 
incisive, clearly defined terms he laid the basis 
for the charge : the motive of the deed as clear 
as daylight, the various material proofs, the 
gravity of the witnesses’ statements, and finally 
the strange conduct of the accused in the pres- 
ence of the corpse. Word after word fell 
from the speaker’s small lips with a metallic 
ring leaving in scarcely one of the auditors a 
single doubt. When Werner had finished, pub- 
lic opinion was made manifest in loud whis- 
perings, but soon again subsided when Presid- 
ing Judge von Hesky arose and, scanning the 
accused with his experienced glance, asked in 
solemn tones: 

“Joseph, surnamed Eichhof, what have you 
to respond to the charge?” 

Breathless silence prevailed over the many- 
headed gathering, every one was listening with 
feverish suspense, so as not to miss the answer 
of the guilty one. 

“Nothing, your Honor,” rang out in sin- 
gularly repressed tones from the heavily 
breathing breast of the accused. “I am in- 
nocent.” 


“You accordingly then still deny, in spite 
of the incontrovertible proofs that have estab- 
lished to an evidence that you and none other 
could have perpetrated the deed? Joseph, do 
you not at all understand, that by means of 
this childish, not to say, useless, falsehood, 
you gain nothing, but that on the contrary you 
only aggravate your case? You were, until 
the very day that unfortunate circumstances 
placed the gun in your hands, an honorable, 
an honest man, in the highest sense of the 
word. Not a blemish stains your past. You 
have been a good son, a faithful brother, a 
brave, punctilious soldier, and a model citizen, 
shall all, then, be wiped out by this single 
act, all that has given fulness, shape and form 
to your life’s conduct? Joseph, — ” the voice 
of the Presiding Judge had grown more and 
more in pathos, and now with its mighty re- 
verberation it filled the vast hall and affected 
the hearts of the audience with quivering emo- 
tions. “You the scion of an old stock, that 
free and proud, as the bearers of noble names, 
has for centuries dwelt upon their heritage, 
you may well have been overwhelmed by the 
imperious force of circumstances, by a just 
indignation at a thief, in an unguarded moment, 
to commit a rash deed, but you are not able 


126 <&&&&&& 


to harden your heart, in the sight of God Al- 
mighty, who sees you, hears you, to deny the 
commission of this deed and defile your lips 
with a lie.” 

A uniform breath of relief rose up from 
the throng when the Presiding Judge had 
closed and slowly lowered his hand that, with 
his last words, he had raised up toward the 
Crucifix. 

“Now then, Joseph Eichhof, what have 
you to say?” repeated the Judge after a brief 
pause. 

And just exactly as before, in the same 
words, and in the same vocal cadence Joseph 
answered : 

“Nothing, your Honor. I am innocent.” 

A vexed shrugging of the shoulders of 
the stern gentleman, a dubious, critical shak- 
ing of the judges’ and jurymen’s heads, angry 
outcries from the onlookers’ section and ex- 
pressions of amazement from the platform. 

When the cross examination of the pris- 
oner, after tiresome questioning, elicited no 
other result than the monotonous, soundless : 
“I did not do it, I am innocent !” the examina- 
tion of the witnesses was begun. 

The first one that with wavering steps 
entered the hall was Joachim. His head was 


bowed down, his look was fixed on the floor. 
A mental mist hung over him so that he 
neither heard nor saw, so that out of the 
many-voiced murmurings of the multitude on- 
ly those words resounded to him that had struck 
him that morning, as he stepped on the train, 
and rivetted themselves on his attention out 
of the rattling of wheels and the snorting 
of the engine : “Joseph sold by his brethren !” 
And hadn’t he, too, sold his brother? Was 
he not ready and willing to confirm and seal 
the sale? To burden the blood of his own 
brother with that of his unhappy victim ? 
Joachim fairly trembled and he had to hold 
himself with a spasmodic grip in the witness 
stand to be able to stand erect. He did not 
understand what the Presiding Judge said to 
him; the words blended and merged in that 
frightful phrase, that had for hours resounded 
in his ears, uninterruptedly: “Joseph sold by 
his brethren!” It was only toward the con- 
clusion of the speech that he regained his 
composure? Upon being admonished by the 
court, for his unhappy brother’s sake, whom 
an incomprehensible obstinacy had confused 
mentally, to speak and thus lead the obdurate 
one to a confession, if he did not wish to 
avail .himself of his legal right to refuse to 


testify on the ground of relationship, the mas- 
ter of the Oak Farm responded, after several 
futile efforts to speak, with the utmost ex- 
ertion : 

“I shall not testify against my own brother. 
I beg to be discharged.” 

And even before the Presiding Judge had 
nodded his assent, this strong man, who had 
not known any illness in his entire life, who 
was never aware of such a thing as nerves, fell 
into a faint. 

“The poor man !” was repeated on all 
sides, while he, unconscious was carried out. 

“The blow struck the proud proprietor’s 
heart. No wonder, when one has to endure 
such stuune for one’s next of kin.” 

And the general indignation waxed just so 
much stronger against the accused, who, with- 
out any other evidence of emotion than a con- 
tinued change of color, was sitting on the 
bench in the prisoner’s dock. Even the judges’ 
and jurymen’s eyes followed the glance of the 
risen multitude, which were angrily fixed on 
the accused. Was there then nothing and 
nobody able to touch the latter’s heart? 

The next witnesses introduced were Ber- 
nard and Martin. The old man-servant gave 
his testimony hesitatingly and reluctantly, and 


it was more than once that the Presiding 
Judge admonished him according to his sol- 
emn oath to speak the whole truth. But in 
spite of this, he closed, as he scratched himself 
gently behind the ear, deliberately in these 
words : 

“How the story fits together, I do not 
know. That the learned gentlemen may whit- 
tle out with elaborate care, I am too stupid 
for that; but that Joseph did not commit the 
deed, I’ll pledge my head on that.” 

„ If the words as it were had to be drawn 
forth singly from the sullen graybeard’s 
mouth, perforce, so Martin poured forth his 
testimony so much the more fluently and cir- 
cumstantially. Everything that he related in 
a voice of sincere conviction and under the 
influence of that terrible night about the be- 
wildered look of the accused, about his despair 
in view of the poor unfortunate tailor’s 
corpse, must needs produce the profoundest 
impression upon the jurors against Joseph. 
Then followed the examination of the officers 
who had gleaned the testimony at the scene of 
the crime and the identification of the objects 
found there. The accused did not deny that 
the gun and the ammunition were his personal 
property. 

a brother’s sacrifice 


9 




13 ^ 


“And in spite of this you wish to assert 
that you did not fire the fatal shot, even though 
the bullet extracted from the wound fits exact- 
ly into the barrel of the gun ? In spite of this 
you dare, in the presence of the bloody gar- 
ments of your victim, to assert that you did 
not perpetrate the deed?” interrogated the 
Presiding Judge in an angry, thunderous voice, 
echoing over the heads of the assembled au- 
dience. 

“I did not do it, I am innocent.” 

The Presiding Judge turned to the wit- 
nesses without deigning another word to the 
accused. He was set against him. The guilt 
of the defendant was incontrovertibly esta- 
blished for him, and that he, Ewald von Hes- 
ky, whose adroitness was equally famed by 
friend and foe, was unable to move the ob- 
durate hypocrite and make him confess, that 
put that sensitive gentleman completely out 
of humor. Those within the bar and the 
general audience shared his views. The 
judges, the twelve jurors, of whom many had 
known and esteemed Joseph from his boy- 
hood, still wavered, even though the majority 
were inclined toward a verdict of guilty. Even 
the defendant’s counsel, Attorney Holsten, 
who was sitting beside the client, looked doubt- 




ful and irritably fumbled his papers. He was 
aware that he presented a lost case. 

The next succeeding examination of the 
county physician did not advance the progress 
of the trial a single step. The Presiding 
Judge even angrily wrinkled his brows at the 
laconic, curt, and measured statement of the 
doctor, who manifestly did not wish to have 
his well-known friend mentioned as the per- 
petrator, and restricted himself to the declara- 
tion that the shot was the undoubted cause of 
the death. So much more was accordingly 
expected from the following witnesses, from 
Aunt Margaret Tilbeck and from the maid- 
servant Clara Trippelfort. 

“O Joseph,” groaned Aunt Meg, when 
the Presiding Judge called her attention to the 
sanctity of an oath and admonished her to 
speak the truth, as through her this obscure 
matter might perhaps be cleared up, “that I 
must live to see you in this trouble!” 

The accused turned his head away as if 
tortured by great bodily pains. 

“Yes,” the aunt declared upon inquiry, 
“the gun belongs to Joseph. It always hung 
above his bed in the room upstairs until th^t 
awful day.” 

“You saw when the accused took the gun 
down ?” 




“No, I didn’t. Clara and I had gone out 
into the inclosure to milk and ” 

“About what o’clock was it?’’ interposed 
the Presiding Judge. “Try to recollect ac- 
curately; everything depends on that!’’ 

“Yes, but so very accurately I do not know 
how to tell it. But it was later than usual, 
the old mistress of the Meadow Farm had 
been there, and when she finally left, I noticed 
with a fright that the sun was already behind 
the beeches of the bright enclosure.” 

“And where was Joseph in the mean- 
while ?” 

“In the heathy meadow making aftermath 
hay.” 

“He was not there yet when you got 
home ?” 

“Pie must have been there. But I didn’t 
see him.” 

“But how do you know that he had been 
there?” 

“Just as Clara and I were crossing the 
dell, I thought that I heard the lock of the side 
door latch. I even called ‘J ose ph/ but re- 
ceived no answer and afterward ” 

“And afterward?” 

“Afterward when Joseph did not come 
and I went to look for him and see whether 


- 133 


he had not perhaps gone unobserved to the 
room upstairs, I noticed that the gun was 
missing. ,, 

“You know for certain that before it was 
still at its place ?” 

“Yes. — My God,” interrupted Aunt Meg, 
“must I say it then? Must I help then to put 
my own sister’s son on the scaffold?” 

“You are before God Almighty, before 
whom you will have to swear to the truth of 
your statements, obliged to state all you 
know,” Judge von Hesky admonished her in 
a solemn, emphatic voice. 

“In the afternoon I had been up in the 
room,” proceeded the aunt, trembling. “The 
mistress of the Meadow Farm desired to see 
the picture that had come from the bleachery 
the day before, and as it was up in the trunk; 
we went upstairs and saw the gun hanging in 
its accustomed place above Joseph’s bed. The 
mistress of the Meadow Farm even asked 
whether it was loaded, and thought, when I 
answered her affirmatively, that it was really 
dangerous to have such a thing ready to fire 
off at hand and that she did not tolerate it on 
her farm.” 

“And you know for certain that this con- 
versation occurred on that very day, Miss 
Tilbeck?” 


134 


“Yes, indeed, unfortunately I know it only 
too well. It was on the day when Muck ” 

“Who and what is Muck?” interjected the 
Presiding Judge. 

“Muck is our old tomcat, if your Honor 
please, permit me to state. On that evening 
as I was just talking with Clara about the 
possibility of Joseph’s having been there, the 
animal came in and mewed so piteously, that it 
was at once noticeable that something had hap- 
pened to it. It limps even to the present day.” 

“Is, then, the prisoner at the bar generally 
cruel to animals?” 

“Cruel? Joseph cruel? Oh no, he wouldn’t 
harm a fly on the wall, but on that evening 
he could not have been his usual sane self. 
For how else would he have shot the dis- 
sipated tailor? If Muck could only speak?” 

The maid’s testimony substantially agreed 
with that of her mistress. She had not heard 
the sidedoor’s latch drop, but instead of it 
had seen the figure of a man, which according 
to the height and bearing could have been 
none other than the farmer, disappear among 
the willows. Also to Clara Trippelfort the 
wholly inconceivable cruelty of the farmer to 
Muck, whose front paw had been bruised by 
a kick, was a proof of his criminal act. 




“Joseph, will you even now, after 
all these overwhelming proofs, adhere to your 
assertion?” the Presiding Judge again turned 
to the defendant. 

The latter rose from his bench and merely 
shook his head silently. 

The trial continued without anything new 
being brought to light. Besides architect John 
Floth and the head domestic Cora Banden- 
heuer there were several laborers examined, 
who, on returning home from their toil alleged 
that they had seen Joseph deeply absorbed in 
thought, near the stone Cross, over an hour 
before the murder. They had bidden him the 
time of day, but received no response. 
Whether he had the gun with him then al- 
ready, they could not say, they did not pay 
particular attention to that. 

“We thought Joseph was a visionary, like 
old Nicholas Hinnerk, he was just gazing 
straight ahead, as if he saw something and yet 
saw nothing.” 

A goose-herd of the Meadow Farm had 
heard an altercation at a distance and soon 
thereafter the gun’s report. 

“Why then did you not run thither and 
call for help?” queried the Presiding Judge 
of the half-mature, tall and lanky chap, who 


S? 1 36 €&&&&&£ 


in his perplexity kept tossing his arms to and 
fro very shyly and awkwardly. 

“Nay/’ grinned the youth with cunning 
face. “Father always says one should not be 
inquisitive, for then one gets into trouble.” 

“And you actually believe that the voice 
that you heard was that of Joseph?” inquired 
the Presiding Judge. 

“Yes, naturally, who else then?” retorted 
the goose-herd with naive amazement. 

The midday recess, already unduly de- 
layed, kept the fate of the unfortunate man 
still longer in suspense. After resuming the 
trial, when the grave and dignified figure of 
Father Heitfeldt appeared at the bar to give 
the required testimony as to the character of 
this member of his parish, and the clergyman 
spoke in eloquent words of the defendant’s 
spotless past, his strict honesty, and empha- 
sized his unshakable love of truth and in a 
thrilling tone declared his moral conviction of 
Joseph’s guiltlessness, then the hearts of the 
auditors were touched for an instant. A large 
portion of the breathlessly listening multitude 
and more than one in the ranks of the judges 
and jurors were disposed to render a verdict 
of not guilty. The keen smile, the scornful 
tone of voice in which Presiding Judge Hesky, 




however, suddenly interjected the interroga- 
tory : “And on what proofs is this your moral 
conviction based, Reverend Father, if I may 
inquire ?” and immediately extinguished the 
favorable impression. FatherHeitfeldt murmur- 
ed something unintelligible, began once more 
about his parishioner’s irreproachable life, got 
confused and entangled and became silent. 
With tears in his eyes he glanced at Joseph 
and left the witness stand with the uncomfort- 
able feeling of having done the accused more 
harm than good by his testimony. 

The subsequent examinations were without 
special significance, only that they tightened 
the toils cast over the unfortunate’s head. The 
convicting witnesses were many, the exoner- 
ating ones few, and they based their views only, 
like the priest, upon their own convictions of 
the accused one’s incapability of committing 
such a crime. 

When at length the testimony was closed, 
the State’s Attorney arose, forging in a skil- 
ful speech a complete, unbroken chain and 
presenting the prisoner’s undeniable guilt in 
clear, incisive language. No one that heard the 
brilliant argument of the keen and adroit 
counsel, could escape the view that the ob- 
durate criminal there on the bench of repent- 


ance had perpetrated the deed. The defend- 
ant’s counsel replied to the several single 
points in well-considered sentences, with a 
great deal of dexterity and experienced tact, 
but he did not refute them. His address was 
weak and dragging, the enkindling warmth of 
enthusiasm, and the complete emphasis of con- 
viction were lacking. He had never spoken 
so poorly as today. Holsten was personally 
conscious of this and wished to supply by fine 
words what his speech fell short of in in- 
trinsic contents, and the hollow jingle of phras- 
es operated even more disadvantageously. 

During the entire speech Joseph had only 
once raised his head that was bent down on his 
bosom and regarded his defending counsel 
with a bitter smile; he knew it, Attorney Hol- 
sten, who personally believed in his guilt, was 
utterly unable to parry the keen blows of the 
quick-witted State’s Attorney and prove his in- 
nocence. An unspeakable pain contracted his 
heart, he clasped his hands so convulsively, so 
violently together, that his finger-nails bit deep- 
ly into the flesh. 

Finally the speeches for the prosecution and 
the defense were ended and the jurymen with- 
drew to their consulting room for deliberation. 
A depressed, anxious feeling prevailed in the 




vast courtroom. Only a dull murmuring, ris- 
ing and falling like the sea fanned by summer 
breezes, manifested itself here and there, and 
then again subsided into absolute silence. 
Meanwhile all eyes were riveted on the door 
through which the jurors would soon return 
to the hall. When the narrow door opened 
again — was it after a quarter, or a whole 
hour ? — Who would have been able to tell it — 
during the painful expectation ! — The heart- 
throbs of all present stopped for an instant in 
anxious apprehension of the jury’s verdict. 
Everyone spontaneously held his breath, those 
in front pressed still nearer to the bar, those 
in the rear stood on tiptoe so as not to miss a 
single sound. 

“Guilty,” rumbled the deep voice of the 
foreman, a stout beer brewer, through the ex- 
pectant silence. “Guilty on every count of the 
indictment, with exclusion of mitigating cir- 
cumstances! Guilty of premeditated murder!” 

The verdict was found with ten against 
two votes. Only the Count of Hochstetten, 
the noble scion of an ancient lineage, and the 
master shoemaker, Balten, a man of cul- 
ture and an honest mechanic, were unable 
to say “Guilty,” and declared that although 
the deed was surrounded by obscurity and all 




the evidence pointed to the accused, they 
nevertheless denied his guilt and had to as- 
sume an unknown perpetrator. 

When the last sound of the verdict of 
guilty had died away, a loud murmuring en- 
sued, which soon rose to a wild confusion of 
voices, exclamations and protestations with 
which every anxious heart had been burdened. 
Then again a deathlike silence reigned. The 
sentence of the court that had retired to the 
consulting room had yet to be imposed: It 
required no long delay. After scarcely a 
quarter of an hour the gentlemen returned. 
The purport of the sentence was imprisonment 
for life in the penitentiary. 

“In the penitentiary for life !” reverberated 
through the hall like the hollow breaking of 
the waves on the seashore, along the corridors, 
out into the waiting multitude in the court- 
yard. 

“Life imprisonment!” Every one felt the 
cold shivers on his back — only not he, whom 
it most concerned. He was not yet able to 
grasp the meaning of the words: “For life 
in the penitentiary!” 

Upon the announcement of this sentence 
Joseph had risen mechanically and was now 
staring with an absent look at the Presiding 
Judge. 


141 


"‘Didn’t you understand?” asked Judge 
von Hesky, who could not get over it that 
he had in vain exerted the compelling force 
of his personality against the obstinacy of this 
wretch, in a severe tone of voice. “Through 
your obstinate denials the murder committed 
acquired very much the appearance of inten- 
tional homicide. The charge could have been 
based thereon and the sentence imposed in ac- 
cordance therewith. Rejoice to have it, in 
a certain degree, commuted graciously into 
lifelong imprisonment in the penitentiary.” 

“Commuted!” The word brought the un- 
happy man back to his senses. 

“Commuted to the penitentiary ! For life !” 
he panted with heaving breast. 

“Had you given honor to truth and at the 
proper time made a comprehensive confession, 
then mitigating circumstances would have been 
taken into consideration and the sentence im- 
posed would have been more lenient.” 

An agonizing emotion clutched the con- 
vict’s heart and quivered on his lips. 

“If your Honor please,” he began, in a 
faint and pathetic tone, but there his voice 
broke. A tide of passion rushed to his bosom, 
darkened his face, and seemed to force him to 
proclaim to the world, by a heart-rending 




shriek, the crime of injustice which that day 
had been committed. But, again his noble re- 
solution returned victoriously as he gazed to- 
ward his old home ; his head, raised in protest 
and indignation, drooped to his bosom and he 
only said, in a sad, half-audible voice, “I am 
innocent, I am innocent and, unresisting, he 
was led out amid the noisy riot and sinister 
whisperings of the multitude. 





Chapter X. 

Nearly fifteen years have passed over the 
Oak Farm. The steep, high-gabled roof still 
stands firm and unshaken in the shelter of 
the mighty oaks ; and the old trees still 
tower proudly toward the skies; and in the 
summer time the fields still wave to their re- 
mote boundaries with luxurious plenty, and the 
ripe and heavy ears sink in golden splendor 
beneath the reapers’ scythes — but nevertheless 
a gloomy spirit broods over the vast estate, a 
dark cloud, that no breath of air can drive 
away, and no ray of sunshine disperse or il- 
luminate. The gruesome guest, that incessant- 
ly hovered around the Oak Farm ever since 
the night of the crime, on the day that sentence 
was imposed, entered into and took possession 
of the younger son of the house, and never left 
him. He occupied the best place at the hearth 
and triumphantly sat in the old shepherd’s 
chair which was vacated on the night of the 
jury trial. 

Nicholas Hinnerk, on that sad November 
day, had sat from early morning until late at 
night by the fire and with a ghostlike look 
stared into the flames. No persuasion of the 




domestics prevailed upon him to eat even a 
morsel, or pass a single drop over his parched 
lips. Even Spitz, that now and again laid his 
right fore-paw upon his master’s knee and by 
a bark endeavored to remind him of his duty, 
did not succeed in arousing the old man out 
of his gloomy broodings. Only once when the 
mistress of the Oak Farm approached the 
hearth and the glances of the two met, there 
flashed forth a gleam of intelligence from the 
dim eyes and he murmured: 

“Poor woman ! How will she bear it ? The 
one is as hard and as terrible as the other !” 

Until very late in the night he then re- 
mained sitting immovably in his corner, till, 
near twelve o’clock, a carriage rattled into the 
yard and all the domestic help around the large 
table exclaimed with one voice: ‘It’s they! 
At last!” 

A few moments later they entered the 
kitchen, gloomy and silent; it was Bernard, 
Carl, the overseer, Cora and Martin. Joachim 
had gotten off on the way, he wished to return 
home afoot and despite the darkness he would 
find his way over the heath ; he had to stretch 
out his limbs properly after sitting so long, 
lest he might be stricken with paralysis. 

The expectant looks, the significant 


145 

“Well?” with which the arrivals were greeted, 
was soon answered. A single word told it 
all. Afterward not one of them would admit 
having spoken it, but it was nevertheless said, 
softly and timidly, indeed, the fearful word: 
“Lifelong imprisonment !” 

And as wave stirs wave, it reached old 
Nicholas Hinnerk’s ears and caused the feeble 
old man to spring up suddenly from his chair. 
The bloodless hands became clenched, the deep- 
ly sunken eyes flashed lightning. 

“Convicted, you say?” he cried in a harsh 
and shrieking voice. “Our Joseph convicted? 
It is not possible. Oh, oh,” — touching his 
forehead gently with his finger — “where did 
the wise judges have their reason, where their 
eyes, their ears? That is the greatest misfor- 
tune. Fool that I was, to interpret the vision 
so falsely. Now only will there come forth 
the eager flame from the depths of hell and 
eat, eat, till the bloody blaze has devoured us 
all. Poor unfortunate home! What shall 
become of thee? I shall come to thy rescue 

I O God ” 

Before the *6ld man could say what he 
intended, he sank back into his chair, power- 
less, and in spite of all the efforts of the anx- 
ious servants surrounding him, in spite of the 
a brother’s sacrifice 10 


wailing howl of his faithful Spitz, he never 
more recovered consciousness. He could not 
survive the misfortune of the Oak Farm, on 
which, until then, only right and justice had 
ruled ever sine he began his service as a bov. 

Nicholas Hinnerk was carried out to his 
last resting place, but nevertheless the evil 
guest, that took his place and invisibly sat on 
his vacant chair, remained. He squats day and 
night, summer and winter, in the silent corner ; 
every gladsome smile, and every loud word is 
throttled in its bud. The agonizing presence 
of the specter, that constantly sits opposite 
to Joachim, as often as he sits down before the 
beneficent flames, has bent his frame, bleached 
his hair, made of him a peaceless and joy- 
less man, a stranger at his own hearth. As 
much as possible Joachim avoids the house, 
works in the summer time like the meanest 
laborer from early until late on the farm- 
land; in the winter, wanders aimlessly over 
meadow and woodland, always driven on by 
a restless power, the specter that broods on the 
dead shepherd’s chair and scowls at him even 
out of his innocent wife’s eyes. 

Mariann is almost changed more peculiar- 
ly than her husband. The misfortune has be- 
numbed her soul and petrified her heart. Since 


147 


that fateful evening put an end to a miserable 
existence unworthy of humanity, her eyes have 
lost the light of smiles and unlearned to weep. 
The consuming excitement of the night sear- 
ed all her inner sensibilities and left only a 
waste ruin. Who would think that in this sad 
woman, in that glance losing itself in vacancy, 
there ever gleamed forth a joyous light? that 
these thin, pale cheeks were ever wreathed in 
roguish dimples, or arched in roseate plump- 
ness, and this severely silent mouth was ever 
bubbling over with cheerful, girlish chatter? 
If the memory of the heedless years of her 
childhood, when on the ridge of the meadow 
boundary, she inquisitively listened for Jo- 
seph’s joyful song reverberating through the 
forest, rose up in her, she would regard the 
time so remote as if a thousand years had 
intervened between then and now. 

The unhappy woman moves about the 
house mechanically, attends to her business, 
and directs the domestics rather by a glance of 
her large, earnest eyes than with a word from 
her firmly closed lips. The lively actions of 
her children tend just as little to disturb the 
marble repose of her countenance as the mys- 
terious power of death. Without moving an 
eyelash and without lamentation, and even 


without tears, Mariana twice stood at the 
bier of her two youngest children, when on the 
same day diphtheria claimed two victims from 
the family. And three years ago, when the 
eldest son, a trim cuirassier, he, who but a 
short time before in his natty white uniform, 
had been the pride of the home, was suddenly 
carried away by an acute fever and brought 
home as a corpse, and Joachim tore his hair 
in sorrow for his heir, Mariann stood stolidly 
and silently by, moving no limb and only mur- 
muring softly to herself : 

“His blood be upon us and our children. 
Happy they wdio are delivered from the agony” 
The domestics looked shyly at the woman, 
and secretly pointed with the fingers to the 
forehead, indicating that something was not 
right there. 

“You, Cora,” whispered old Bernard to the 

aged maid-servant, “the woman ” 

“Be silent about the woman,” Cora an- 
swered in a whisper “she is bearing a burden 

so heavy, so heavy ” 

“How, Cora, you mean ” 

“Bernard,” said the maid as she placed her 
bony hand on the man’s shoulder, “there are 
things that are so terrible, that they should 
not even be mentioned. If Nicholas Hinnerk 
still lived ” 


149 ^ 




“Yes, if Nicholas Hinnerk still lived, he 
could explain these visions. He observed how 
the storm hovering above the Oak Farm 
brought death and ruin.” 

“Death and ruin,” Cora repeated in a mur- 
mur and crossed herself. “O Bernard, death 
is not the worst. But ruin ! And ruin is what 
the woman fears, that is consuming her life, 
that is breaking her heart. She is always seek- 
ing it, she thinks of it by day ; she dreams only 
of it at night; hence she always looks as if she 
were entirely somewhere else, hence she will 
encoffin Mariann and Joseph as calmly as she 
laid the others in their graves.” 

“But that is not natural, Cora,” was the 
servant’s opinion and he shivered. 

“Oh, oh, Bernard, many things are not nat- 
ural around here,” mocked Cora. “Do you 
only notice that now? Haven’t you observed 
it for years? didn’t you feel it with every 
breath of air ? Why, otherwise, does it seem as 
if a curse rested upon the Oak Farm and that 
even the beggars avoid the turnpike when- 
ever possible ? Why are we constantly chang- 
ing employees? Why are we unable to retain 
any man or maid, at the utmost, longer than 
two years ?” 

“They are afraid of Joachim’s hasty tern- 


1 50 

per, of his feverish restlessness, and are actu- 
ally almost more apprehensive of the wife’s 
stony composure.” 

“That’s just what I’ve been saying. Every 
one that crosses the threshold of the house feels 
that there is something here that should not be, 
that a fearful specter hovers over the house 
and gloomy ghosts, the spirit of the murdered 
tailor and the spirit of our miserable Joachim” 
— the domestic had depressed her voice to an 
almost inaudible whisper — “are haunting here 
and drive away all peace.” 

Bernard, over whom a cold shudder had 
come, looked back timidly, as if he already 
felt the breath of the spirits on his neck. Then 
he nodded his head cautiously, and said: 

“It is indeed possible that you are right, 
Cora. It has also seemed so to me at times, 
but ” 

“Bernard, you and I belong to the Oak 
Farm. We are born here; then our parents 
were yet poor, bonded serfs, and may God 
preserve me in grace for it, that I should even 
divulge a syllable that might cast a stain on 
the place, but — I know what I know, and the 
wife knows it too.” 

Yes, the wife knew it and almost succumb- 
ed beneath her burden. There was something 


in her that constantly cried out in unutterable 
pain, that sought to give vent to itself at any 
price and yet had to be repressed just as anxi- 
ously, so as neither by word nor look to reveal 
a breath of that by which she was being ment- 
ally and physically wrecked. She had placed 
three of her children into coffins, two still re- 
mained to the wretched mother, more in agony 
than in joy. The fearful fate that impended 
over the Oak Farm was to reach her too, 
and crush her beneath the weight of its stroke. 
The dead had escaped, they had found peace; 
to the living the fight remained, and the venge- 
ance of the Lord. Thus even her daughter 
Mariann, who a few weeks since had been en- 
gaged to the eldest son of the Master of Wenk- 
haus and was to be married the following 
spring, had received sparing congratulation 
from her own mother. 

“Alas,” lamented the handsome, twenty- 
three year old maiden, on the afternoon of her 
day of betrothal, when the parents of her 
fiance were taking a walk around the Oak 
Farm with Joachim, “you are not at all like 
other mothers. You scarcely even gave me a 
kind word today and not even once granted 
me a pleasant look.” 

“No, I am not like other mothers,” an- 



swered Mariann in a pathetic voice, “but other 
mothers have not suffered either what I have 
suffered.” 

“O, Henry’s mother also lost several chil- 
dren and ” 

A glance replete with grief and mental tor- 
ture silenced the rosy and lively girl. 

“So then,” she continued dejectedly, “you 
refer to uncle! — ” Then the feelings which 
had been so long repressed were given vent, 
and the daughter asked almost violently: 

“Mother, why should we, on account of 
uncle, renounce every pleasure and let his 
memory embitter our lives? Isn’t it enough 
for us to have had a childhood so sad and de- 
void of love, such as even the poorest children 
of our hired people do not have? Always re- 
pulsed, always intimidated, we hardly dared to 
breathe freely from sheer anxiety. And yet 
Father Wenkhaus said this very day that we 
needn’t grieve about it any more, the matter 
was long since past and closed. That there 
was no disgrace to it, uncle ” 

“Silence, child, don’t mention the 
name, don’t utter a breath of the matter. Let 
us not speak about it. Who knows how soon 
it will reach us, strike us and ” 

The whitened lips of the woman quivered ; 
they moved but not a sound passed over them. 


The daughter, who certainly knew the strange 
conduct of her mother for years, for the first 
time was frightened by it, and fled shuddering 
secretly to her fiance, who was still standing in 
the yard with her brother and examining the 
colts. 

The summer breeze was stirring in the 
branches of the oaks, the leaves fluttered and 
the sunlight’s golden rays flitted playfully over 
the greensward. It was one of those rare days 
when all nature breathes only peace, beneficent, 
solacing peace, when heaven and earth seem 
to have moved nearer each other in blessed 
hope. And yet the brightest sunshine was not 
able to illumine the cloud that hovered dark 
and oppressive over the Oak Farm, and now 
with an anxious foreboding settled on the 
bridal maiden’s heart, extinguishing its glow- 
ing exultation. 

“The curse is upon us,” murmured Mariann, 
wringing her hands. “Shall it, must it also 
reach the innocent children? Is there no 
penance, — no expiation for him — him — who — 
O my God, mercy! mercy!” 




Chapter XI. 

And he, whose name was not allowed to 
be mentioned on the Oak Farm, and who nev- 
ertheless lived in the hearts of all, and trem- 
bled on every lip, where was he? 

In the same hour that Mariann was stand- 
ing at her chamber window with a troubled 
face and was crying to heaven to avert the 
curse, there was a lean, prematurely old man 
pushing along a wheelbarrow hauling a 
light doorsill on an estate in the vicinity of 
the chief provincial town. His brownish jack- 
et and trousers, and his shieldless cap, would 
at once have indicated the convict, even if 
at a short distance, there had not been a jail- 
guard walking to and fro, with a shouldered 
musket watching the laborers excavating a 
trench. 

It was Joseph Eichhof, who like the rest 
soon stepped into the row of the barrow-men, 
his back bent beneath the heavy load, his brow 
bedewed with hot perspiration, his breast 
straining for breath — but his thoughts were 
far, far away. They always flew, when he 
was assigned to outside work, over to the 
near and yet, to him, unattainable home. What 




often in his narrow cell rendered his senses 
dull and gloomy and paralyzed his feelings, 
here in the free open air disappeared. The 
blue sky, the bright sunshine, the melodious 
voices of the birds and the woodland echoes 
sang to his heart the songs of his youth, and 
conjured up pictures of a happy past before 
his mental vision. The same breeze that here 
swept the plain, there likewise passed over 
the heath and fanned the grainfields at the edge 
of the forest into gentle undulations. 

Joseph suddenly stood still. In the trench 
of the low-lying meadow that was being filled 
up by the excavated earth, a luxuriant bunch 
of forget-me-nots struck his sight and instant- 
ly there flashed before his mind an evening, 
a never-to-be-forgotten evening, on which 
Mariann, on returning home from Vespers, had 
plucked for-get-me-nots by the fish-pond and 
afterward at his request, had divided the nose- 
gay and given him half of it. Blushing she 
quickly ran away, he however had placed the 
flowers in his psalmody and carefully pre- 
served them. The torn hymn-book had ac- 
companied him to Potsdam and had always 
been a true friend to him. The wheel of the 
man in his rear had long since forced him 
ahead, but his thoughts remained in the same 


1 56 


trend. Were the faded blossoms still lying be- 
tween the pages ? Did his aunt still revere the 
old book? 

‘‘You, number 46” — his name, the unfor- 
tunate had lost at the same time that he lost 
his honor and liberty, and had become a mere 
lifeless and insensate number — “listen a mo- 
ment,” whispered his neighbor, when the over- 
seer had turned his back and the long row 
of restless laborers went down into the trench, 
“something’s going to happen soon.” 

Joseph raised his pale face at these words 
and his earnest, sad eyes gazed incompre- 
hensively at the speaker. 

“We’ve had enough of this,” hinted the 
latter with triumphant emphasis. “Ha ha, the 
gentlemen are sharp, but we are sharper still. 
The rest don’t wish me to inform you secretly, 
because they say you are a sneak, a sancti- 
monious hypocrite, a traitor, but may the devil 
take me if I’ll leave you in the lurch. Last 
year when we were working at building the 
infernal canal, you saved my life — he’s an 
ingrate that forgets something like that. So 
then, Black Harry, — number 92, I mean, — 
will soon begin to quarrel with his neighbor, 
and whilst the guard is there endeavoring to 
separate the boisterous fellows, Slashing Jim 


^157 


and I will grab him from the rear and render 
him harmless. The forest is not far distant, 
accomplices are waiting for us there behind 
the dike-hedge. It’s impossible to fail. Before 
the overseers of the other gangs will be 
able to arrive here we shall be gone. As 
soon as Slasher gives the signal agreed up- 
on, a thrice repeated cuckoo’s call, we’ll throw 
our mattocks away and make our escape far 
away.” 

“I shall not go along,” answered Joseph. 

' “You won’t go along? Bah, comrade, you 
must. You wish to betray us, eh? And make 
yourself a favorite with the director and the 
parson ?” 

Joseph simply shook his head. 

“And you, too, are a lifelong one,” mock- 
ingly continued the former, “you have, just 
as well as Harry and I, human blood sticking 
to your hands, even though you now pretend 
to be so pious that they set you up before 
us as an encouraging example. But wait ” 

The guard’s approaching footsteps silenced 
the talk. For a while nothing was heard but 
the laborers’ hoes and mattocks, the jangling 
noise of the wheelbarrows, and the panting 
lungs of the barrow-men. All was silent, but 
in Joseph’s bosom, his companion’s words had 


generated a veritable storm. He saw and 
heard nothing more of the outside world. 

Free! Free! Did he really ever have the 
wish to be free after the first dire times, dur- 
ing which his entire nature rose up in protest 
against the iron barriers of his prison, had 
been passed? True, his longing glance had 
lingered upon the blue sky that beamed into his 
cell, had ardently followed the flight of the 
swallows, when those tight-winged birds were 
circling around the prison tower — free, free, 
and he, a free son of the red soil, a prisoner, 
shackled for life! It was more than once, 
when his blood was throbbing his temples and 
his agonizing thoughts threatened to split his 
head asunder, that he was on the point of 
sending for the director or head prison warden 
and making a clean breast of the whole truth. 
For, didn’t Joachim deserve it for his cow- 
ardice that his deed should be upon him, or 
should the guilty one take the innocent one’s 
place? Hadn’t he believed and hoped to the 
very last that Joachim would yield to his better 
self and by his frank confession bring forth 
the truth to the light of day? By his brother’s 
refusal to testify before the jury, by which 
act Joseph was for life placed into the ranks 
of criminals, something had been rent in twain 




in his breast, something died in his heart, 
that was nevermore to be aroused. But the 
years passed by very gently ; the consciousness 
of his own clear conscience and the kindly 
encouragement of the prison pastor who saw 
more profoundly into his soul, had cooperated 
to set at rest and ease his mind. He had 
silenced the violent desires of his heart and in 
the faithful performance of strenuous labor, 
he had regained his lost peace. His superiors, 
from the director, a benevolent and just man, 
down to the last overseer, were favorably dis- 
posed to the silent, serious man who never 
permitted himself to become guilty of any 
refractoriness, of a single violation against 
the regulations, and on more than one oc- 
casion the former had spoken with the clergy- 
man about the possibility of obtaining a pardon 
for him from the emperor. 

“If the unfortunate man would only ac- 
knowledge his act/’ he was wont to say, “then 
something might be done for him. His former 
life is blameless, his behavior here in the house 
is exemplary, all the officials award him the 
best of testimonials, the result would be un- 
doubted. But with his denial ?” — The director 
raised his shoulders. — “Couldn’t you possibly 


touch his heart appeal to his consience, 
Father ? 

The priest shook his head in the negative. 

“You know, Mr. Director, that Joseph to 
this very day declares himself just as firmly 
and unswervingly innocent of the murder, as 
he has for years.” 

“Innocent! As if they did not all assert 
that?” sighed the director. “And yet,” — he 
rubbed his forehead. “Do you know, dear 
Father, it would please me greatly, if it turned 
out that Joseph was innocent? This man p'i- 
plexes me very much despite my many years 
of experience. His innocence would be the 
only possible solution of this enigma.” 

To hasten the development of his project, 
the director summoned Joseph to his presence, 
and represented to him the possibility of ob- 
taining a pardon, assuring Joseph of his ut- 
most assistance, provided he should make a 
public statement. But even this endeavor 
was frustrated for Joseph returned to his 
cell unhappier than he had been before. He 
had no more hope. 

And now he nevertheless was to be set 
free. Free! but by whose hand? in what 
manner? Would not the brand of guilt be 
forever graven upon his brow, if he wished 


to escape by means of the assistance of thieves 
and murderers? Was the freedom of hunted 
fugitives, without a home or country, whom 
the fear of rearrest drove from one place to 
another, not worse even than the prison-bars? 
No, a thousand times no! Since he had held 
out so long, he would now hold out to the 
end. If it was God’s decree that his innocence 
should be made manifest, then He would 
certainly find ways and means without the 
interference of poor human endeavors. 

Suddenly there was a clear cuckoo’s call 
heard ringing through the quiet summer 
evening’s air. It seemed to come out of the 
clear sky, so that the guard who was just then 
walking downward, stood still an instant and 
looked around in astonishment. 

“What’s the matter with you there handling 
my hoe ? Hands off !” rung out in fierce tones, 
scarcely ten paces away from Joseph. 

“Do you think that I have a secret to crave 
for it? I never killed any one yet with an 
axe, like other people.” 

“Order down there!” shouted the hastily 
returning overseer and reached for his musket. 

Before he, however, could avail himself of 
its use, two hands grabbed him by the throat 
from the rear, two others seized him by the 

A BROTHER’S SACRIFICE 11 


shoulders, and a long-bladed knife gleamed 
before his eyes. 

“A single sound and you are a dead man !” 
growled the menacing voice of him they called 
Slashing Jim. 

The conscientious officer writhed beneath 
the hands that held him with the strength of 
steel, without being able to free himself or 
utter a cry. 

“Give him the finishing stroke, otherwise 
we’re lost anyhow !” whispered Black Harry. 
“The scoundrels are getting to be on the alert.” 

Slashing Jim raised the knife and was about 
to strike — then a dark object sprang between 
him and his intended victim, — the blade flashed 
downward and pierced deeply into the breast 
of Joseph who had rushed to the rescue. The 
latter collapsed in silence, while the frightened 
convicts let go the overseer and in long strides 
fled over the field toward the sheltering thicket 
in the forest. All had been the work of an 
instant. The other laborers, then only be- 
coming observant, threw away their hoes and 
mattocks and rushed on calling and yelling. 
An excited group gathered around the over- 
seer, who was struggling to regain his breath, 
and Joseph lying at his feet weltering in his 
own blood. 


163 


‘'He has enough for a life-time, 1 ” said a 
kind-looking old fellow, who had bent down to 
the wounded man, and rapidly pulling off his 
own jacket, he endeavored to press it upon the 
fiercely bleeding wound. 

“What’s up ? What has happened here ?” ex- 
claimed the overseer of the next gang hasten- 
ing to the scene, in answer to the general call 
for help, and broke through the dense ranks 
with his fixed musket. 

Still speechless from terror and scarcely 
recovering from the suffocation the first over- 
seer pointed to the wounded man lying on the 
ground. 

“Zounds, but this is bad,” growled the 
guard, kneeling down beside Joseph and ex- 
amining the knife, that “Slashing Jim,” had 
thrown away, with the air of an expert, “I 
was not a carrier of sick and wounded on the 
battle-field in vain. Young fellows, here with 
your handkerchiefs! We’ll see what we can 
do.” 

Willingly, from all sides, the desired hand- 
kerchiefs were handed to him, and while the 
second overseer with deft hand was making 
a provisional dressing, the wounded man re- 
gained sufficient composure to state what had 
happened. 


164 


"Pursuit would not be of any use 
now," was the third overseer’s opinion, as he 
called away from the work, by a loud com- 
mand, all the convicts, and marshalled them 
in ranks, observing their movements with fixed 
and ready musket. "The runaway fugitives 
undoubtedly had good accomplices and have 
already gained too much of a start. Two men 
are missing and the very worst ones, at that, 
Black Harry and Slashing Jim." This is an 
infernal affair ! It will raise a devilish row 
with the director; but it can’t be altered any- 
more. It’s a pity for number 46; he was a 
good fellow, even if he was a murderer!" 

"He saved my life," sighed the first guard, 
"but for him, I’d now be weltering in my blood. 
And I have a wife and children." 

Breathing deeply, he cast himself down 
beside the wounded man, and carefully felt 
his hand. 

"He still lives," he exclaimed joyfully with 
reviving hope. 

"Certainly, he lives," grumbled the second 
overseer who had just completed his bandage, 
"it is merely a question of how long yet? 
Let us get a couple of ladders at the barn and 
make a stretcher, so that he may get into the 
doctor’s hands as soon as possible. Let number 




12 hold the poor fellow’s head, while I, with 
a few of the help, provide the things necessary 
from over there. You others,” he turned to 
his two colleagues, “marshal the gangs, we’ll 
have to turn in for today.” 

In the course of half an hour a strange 
procession was marching toward town. On a 
rudely made stretcher, his head supported by a 
pillow, a mortally wounded man was carefully 
borne by four convicts, convicts were walking 
alongside and convicts were walking in the 
rear all cautiously guarded by three overseers, 
who followed at short distance with muskets 
cocked and ready foi action. 



1C6 


Chapter XII. 

It was the evening of Allhallows. The 
November storm, that had been raging over 
the country all day and had carried away the 
last lingering faded leaves from the trees, wax- 
ed stronger every moment as the pale sun sank 
into a sea of clouds. It howled through the 
welkin, it panted and hissed like a ravenous 
beast of prey around the house, shook and 
rattled the chimneys, bowed the trees and 
wrenched off mighty trunks like dry straws. 
It seemed to bluster and rage worse at the Oak 
Farm. The crown of one of the proud oaks, 
the distinctive mark of the old Saxon stock, 
was already torn with fearful crash and roar 
and, in falling, had wrecked the old roof of the 
barn; one of the stones of the weather-beaten 
wall had become loose and the entire collapse 
of the building was imminent. Some of the 
male and female domestics that had just re- 
turned from funeral vespers sat down around 
the servants’ table and were listening in an- 
xious silence to the raging elements. Cora 
alone busied herself about the hearth and now 
and then exchanged words with the mistress 
of the farm, who was sitting, absorbed in 
thought, at the hearth, opposite to Nicholas 


Hinnerk’s vacant chair. The old wooden stool 
still stood in its old place unmoved. A species 
of superstitious fear had prevented Joachim 
from having the unnecessary bit of furniture 
removed, and what he did not expressly order, 
nobody else would have dared to touch. 

“There goes another tile and another !” 
grumbled Bernard, as the tiles rumbled down 
the roof and crashed upon the ground. “Why, 
Master, you are surely not going out in this 
storm ?” he added, when Joachim, who had just 
come in from a tour through the stables, again 
reached for his cap. 

“I have to; the air here is suffocating me,” 
said Joachim in return as he grasped the door- 
knob. 

“Joachim!” Mariann also called to him as 
she looked up from her hands folded in her 
lap and turning her ghostlike eyes toward him. 

He did not hear her, he was already out in 
the yard, where the sound of his footsteps was 
at once swallowed up by the howling of the 
storm and the rattling of falling tiles. 

“Let the cld lumber-heap fall to pieces al- 
together, I would have had it torn down, any- 
how, in spring,” growled Joachim, with diffi- 
culty combatting the hurricane’s fury. “Ah, 
that does me good, it cools the burning fever 
within!” he panted when, sheltered by the 


forest, he remained standing and took a fresh 
breath. 

What was the wind to him, that shook and 
mangled the tops of the trees, what the snow 
and sleet that struck him so chilly on his hot 
temples ? To him it was a relief and a refresh- 
ment. The uproar of the elements was, indeed, 
but the fanning of a gentle zephyr, compared 
with the storm raging within his own breast. 

O, he knew it well, even if, in his presence, 
none dared to talk of it, he knew of the report 
that was going the rounds of the village for 
months, of the dangerous wounding of his 
brother, of his lingering, wasting illness and 
of the probable pardoning of the heroic man, 
who by the sacrifice of his own life had rescued 
another from certain death. It was published 
in the Westphalia Mercury , in the Muenster 
Anzeiger; it was talked about at the taverns 
and at the bowling-alleys; wife and children 
had whispered it to one another; the hired 
men and maids had put their heads together in 
the barn and in the kitchen, but before him, 
the master, not a single word was mentioned, 
for as soon as he approached, all talk ceased. 

But he knew it, and he likewise knew that, 
if Joseph returned to his home, whose faintly 
illumined windows over there glimmered 
through the leafless trees, that his own stay 






here would be no longer possible. He was 
not able to see his brother again. He could 
not breathe with him on the same plot of earth. 
One had to give way, and that one was he, 
Joachim, the possessor and master of the Oak 
Farm. 

As if frightened by the spirits of vengeance, 
who chase before them the despairing with a 
fiendish, mocking laugh, Joachim wandered 
over the desolate fallow ground. He suddenly 
stumbled. He was startled and looked round 
with an eye of terror. Despite the rapidly in- 
creasing darkness, he could clearly distinguish 
the patient, reproachful countenance of the 
suffering Redeemer, as it looked down upon 
him from the stone cross at the wayside. 

He had not gone near this place for years, 
he had preferred to take the longer roundabout 
way, than to have to come near to the vener- 
able figure. And now he was standing at the 
very same place where he had been standing — 
that time, long ago. 

The wind whistled through the linden trees, 
bending the mighty limbs and blew the cap off 
the motionless, paralyzed man’s head, bearing 
it amid triumphant shrieks over the barren 
field. Joachim did not mind, he shook with 
fear and consternation. He wished to flee 
but was not able. His feet were as if fettered 


to the ground, his eyes stared as if enchanted, 
upon the image of the Crucified that continual- 
ly appeared to be looking at him and asking 
him : 

“Joachim, where is your brother?” 

And like another Cain, his heart again 
hardened after the first overpowering impres- 
sions of terror. Joachim was about to answer 
with an insolent front: “Am I my brother’s 
keeper?” but he could not bear the Savior's 
silent reproach, and as he cast down his eyes 
he seemed to meet the dim gaze of the man 
he had shot. He was filled with an inexpres- 
sible fear. The words froze on his lips. Other 
voices were carried on the winds. 

“Murderer ! Murderer !” there is a howl in 
chorus. “Murderer! worse than murderer, — 
liar, and hypocrite!” is shrieked above the din 
and roar of the storm and reechoes over hill 
and dale. 

The powerful man is trembling in every 
limb, his teeth are chattering audibly, and cold 
sweat is suffusing his forehead. The north- 
west wind, that just held its breath for a mo- 
ment to gain strength to work renewed ruin, 
is again roaring through the land with savage 
fury. The giants of the forest timidly bow 
their heads to its powerful blast; the two 
mighty lindens quake and creak. Now the 




trunk of the one bends low, writhes, another 
blast, and with a loud crash, that resounds far 
above the howling storm, the venerable tree is 
rent asunder. 

For an instant the severed crown of the tree 
hangs suspended in mid-air, then, scourged by 
the force of the wind, it dashes against the 
stone image and smites it to the ground. A 
grinding and rattling of stones and branches, a 
deafening din, — a smothered scream — and then 
silence once more, but for the wild roar of the 
storm resounding in a thousand echoes near 
and far. 

“May the Lord preserve me!” ejaculated 
one of two men, who struggling laboriously 
against the gale, maintained their way over the 
dusky fields. “My hat’s gone to grass. Ah, 
such terrible weather !” 

“I’ve never seen the like before,” observed 
the other, who had tied his cap down with his 
handkerchief. But it isn’t far now ; we ought 
to be at the wayside cross soon, as near as I 
can tell.” 

“Martin, don’t you hear anything?” asked 
the former, stopping and anxiously listening, 
as he peered into the night illumed by a spec- 
tral twilight. 

It had ceased raining, a pale gleam of the 


moon penetrated the rent of the storm-driven 
clouds. 

“Eh, whether I hear it, of course, the wind’s 
a-howling as if the whole host of the weird 
huntsmen were let loose.” 

“No, Martin, that was a different voice 
than the wind’s. There it is again; do you 
hear it now?” 

A low, quivering cry of pain, a struggling 
groan, was distinctly audible in the momen- 
tary lull of the storm. 

“Blockhead, that I was,” said Martin, as 
he struck his brow with his fist, “to take the 
shortest road on account of the storm! Do 
you know Jack,” he whispered confidentially 
to the younger farm-laborer, who had only 
been on the farm for a few months, “since the 
murder I have never again approached this 
place after dusk. The murdered man’s spirit 
haunts it.” 

“But this is no spirit; this is a human 
voice,” exclaimed Jack, when the pitiful groan- 
ing was heard once more. 

“ ’Tis the tailor, just as I tell you. In such 
nights as this all, who have died in their sins, 
arise from their graves and revisit the scenes 
of their death. “I’ll not go a step farther. I’d 
rather battle with the storm than with beings 
without flesh and blood.” 


173 

Hastily deciding, Martin turned around, to 
take the circuitous way over the heath. The 
younger man, who after the example of his 
companion had crossed himself, shuddering, 
was about to follow, when a lamentable cry for 
help arrested his footsteps. 

“Martin that is no spirit, it’s impossible; 
that’s one of our kind,” he declared decisively. 
“If you don’t go along, then I shall go alone.” 

Martin growled and protested. But the 
road over the heath, where the familiar ghost 
of wild Matthew, besides a score of other 
notorious sprites of the night might meet him, 
did not seem safe to him at this hour. He 
would rather stick to the powerful and plucky 
Jack, who, in a pinch, could take it up with 
half a dozen ghosts. 

“One of the lindens!” suddenly exclaimed 
Jack as he stood still. “And the cross, Martin, 
the cross!” 

Martin looked terrified at the familiar place, 
where now only one solitary tree was shaking 
its top in the teeth of the wind and a waste, 
inextricable heap of ruin covered the ground. 

“Help ! Help !” was the renewed moan com- 
ing forth, very feebly, from the ruins. 

“An accident has happened here,” exclaimed 
Jack, quickening his footsteps. “Let’s hurry, 
Martin.” 


The certainty of being in the presence of 
real human distress likewise restored Martin’s 
courage and activity. A few rapid strides 
brough them to the fatal place. 

“Who and where are you ?” he called out in 
a loud voice. 

“It is I ! here !” was the responsive, painful 
cry. The rest of the answer died in an un- 
intelligible groan. 

The two men fell to vigorously. Guided 
by the moaning of the voice beneath the heap 
of storm-lashed foliage, heard sometimes 
louder and again entirely subsiding, they soon 
cleared a passage toward the stricken victim, 
giving words of encouragement while they 
worked. The perspiration was dripping from 
the toiling men’s faces, their hands and cloth- 
ing were torn by the splintered branches, when 
they finally had removed the obstructing 
wreckage so far as to be able to reach the par- 
tially recognizable form of the man crushed 
beneath the heavy cross. The groaning had 
already ceased for some time. Was the un- 
fortunate man dead or were his senses held 
suspended in a swoon? Just then the moon- 
light shone brightly on a pallid face. 

“Merciful God!” exclaimed Martin, who 
happened to be nearest. “It’s the master of 
the Oak Farm.” 




From a gaping wound in his head a crimson 
stream trickled through his disheveled hair, 
from under the arm of the cross that had 
bruised his breast, blood also welled forth. 
Without saying another word, the two concen- 
trated their entire strength, to relieve the 
scarcely breathing man from his crushing bur- 
den. After repeated efforts, putting their mus- 
cular arms and shoulders against it with all 
their might, they succeeded in rolling away the 
stone and delivering Joachim from his agoniz- 
ing situation. Martin rubbed the sweat off his 
brow with his sleeve and breathed deeply. 

“Now then, Jack, run, run as fast as you 
can/’ puffed Martin. “We cannot bear him 
away in this plight without help. In the mean- 
while I’ll remain here. But make haste, so 
that he may not die on my hands/’ 

He bent down again and taking his hand- 
kerchief, he endeavored to tie it around Joach- 
im’s bleeding head. Jack hurried away and as 
his footsteps died away in the distance, the old 
fear of ghosts which under the urgent pressure 
of work, had vanished, again possessed Martin 
with all its gruesome power. 

A nameless horror came over him, a chill 
that proceeded from the heart, slowly crept 
through his veins and seemed to freeze his 
very blood. The closed eyes, the death-like 


rattle in the Master’s throat and the recollec- 
tion of the dead tailor were merged in a terri- 
fying picture. A thought, too shocking to pon- 
der over, loomed up for the first time in his 
mind. He wanted to reject it, but he was not 
able to do so. 

“A divine judgment!” said a voice in the 
conscience of the anxiously listening man. “A 
divine judgment!” rustled the remaining linden 
tree in anxious accents of lamentation. “A 
divine judgment!” howled the winds and it 
was re-echoed in the forest, undulating like a 
storm-tossed sea. 

And then another terrible sound awoke. 
“False witness !” was whispered clearly 
through the noisy gales, and caused the man 
trembling from head to foot, to wring his 
hands in fright. He, a false witness ! And he 
had during all these years been so fully con- 
scious of his own importance, an importance 
that had retained him on the Oak Farm despite 
his endless wrangles with Bernard and Cora, 
the passionate defenders of Joseph’s innocence. 

Martin was not aware whether minutes or 
hours elapsed since Jack had left him, he knew 
and felt only one thing: he had borne false 
witness before court, and there, there, lay the 
guilty one. A shout of relief parted his lips 
when finally footsteps and voices were heard 


approaching and inmates of the Oak Farm, 
supplied with lanterns and a stretcher, came 
into view. 

Joachim groaned aloud when the men took 
hold of him and lifted him up. Hot drops of 
perspiration fell on his forehead. It was old 
Bernard who would not allow himself to be 
deprived of the privilege of taking his master 
home. 

“It’s retribution,” said the old man deeply 
moved. “It was a long time a-coming, but it 
came.” 




A brother’s SACP-TFTCR 


12 




Chapter XIII. 

Yes, retribution had come. 

Gasping, wheezing, muttering broken 
words, the unfortunate man lay on his bed. 
The storm that was still raging with undimin- 
ished force, beat against his chamber window 
and played an awful accompaniment to the 
agonizing groans of the sufferer within. The 
county physician, Doctor Scholten, whom a 
mounted messenger had brought from the city, 
had examined the wounds and significantly 
shrugged his shoulders. Mariann watched his 
lips in mortal suspense. The stony composure 
of her face had vanished. A fierce pain, and 
despairing anxiety gleamed in her eyes, and 
an unspeakable something, that quivered in 
every nerve, and twitched convulsively in every 
muscle. Doctor Scholten looked at her excited 
face with surprise. The skilful physician, ever 
since the day when, with the shot from Jo- 
seph’s gun, all peace and happiness had van- 
ished from the Oak Farm, had never experi- 
enced such singularly amazing changes in the 
formerly mentally and physically vigorous 
woman, so that, like the suspiciously observant 
farmers, he had even begun to doubt her men- 
tal sanity. 




“No, my dear Lady,” he replied to her 
silent, inquiring look, “it would be futile, were 
I now to endeavor to cheer or beguile you with 
delusive hopes. He is past all remedy. Joach- 
im’s injuries are so serious, that even if he 
might recover from the wound on his head, 
he would nevertheless succumb to internal he- 
morrhages. He will not live till tomorrow.” 

Mariann groaned and wrung her hands. 

Tomorrow ! and it was now already near- 
ing nine o’clock. How many hours were yet 
remaining of the rapidly ebbing life of the un- 
fortunate man to expiate, to atone? 

“Have you sent for the priest?” inquired 
the doctor. 

Mariann nodded, she was unable to speak. 

“I think,” continued Doctor Scholten, while 
he was again diligently examining the patient, 
“that he will regain his clear consciousness. 
Of course, I cannot vouch for it. At all events 
I shall remain here all night so as to be im- 
mediately on hand in case of necessity.” 

Mariann looked at him gratefully and from 
him, with a fervid, imploring prayer up to the 
crucifix at the head of the bed. Oh, there was 
nothing else possible, God would graciously 
hear her, He would take pity on the years of 
her heart’s despair and be merciful to Joachim 
in his last hour! 


180 


“All has been done that can be done under 
such circumstances,” the Doctor remarked, ar- 
ranging his case of instruments. As for the 
outcome, we must submit to God and console 
ourselves with the reflection that the poor man 
will not have to suffer long/’ 

While Joseph, the son, left the room with 
the physician, the mother and daughter re- 
mained with the sick man. Mariann moved 
to and fro mechanically ; her lips muttered low 
prayers without her knowing what she said; 
the one intense cry of anguish in her heart 
drowned all other sounds. 

“Let me help you, mother,” begged the 
young woman as Mariann with trembling 
hands applied a fresh cold compress to the 
wound on the head. “Why, you are trembling 
so!” 

Mariann shook her head; she would not 
allow herself to be deprived of the few hours 
that still remained in nursing him. Suddenly 
the motionless man started to rise and, with 
wide-open eyes, stared about him. Racked by 
unbearable pains from the sudden movement, 
he sank back upon his pillow with a moan. 

“He has seized me, the thief! Don’t you 
see how he has flung his arms around me and 
is holding me? His hands are like iron claws 
digging into my flesh and crushing my chest. 


— O, I can’t stand it — I’ll choke — Joseph, help 
me !” 

Then he lapsed into a swoon and for a 
little nothing was audible but a wheezing of 
the severely injured, and painfully laboring 
lungs, and the rustling of the oaks without. 

Now renewing the cold applications, now 
moistening the dry lips, Mariann stood bend- 
ing over him while the two children were sit- 
ting in grief at the foot of the bed, anxiously 
observing their father’s every breath. The 
physican came and went, a domestic brought 
fresh well-water or chilled wine, another stole 
in on tiptoe to look after the situation of affairs 
and bring information to those assembled 
around the hearth in anxious expectancy. Thus 
more than an hour passed. The storm had 
abated, and only in occasional, fitful blasts it 
fretted about the isolated farmstead. 

At length a carriage arrived. The sacris- 
tan’s bell was tinkling and the priest approach- 
ed with the Blessed Sacrament. At the fami- 
liar sounds the son and daughter looked at their 
father with heartful glances, and Mariann in 
her silent mental agony hid her face in her 
hands. On the stairs the doctor and the priest 
consulted a moment in whispers. During this 
brief delay the wounded man opened his eyes. 
“Mariann,” he murmured in a feeble voice. 


182 


“Yes, Joachim/’ she softly answered. 

He fumbled painfully for her hand. She 
reached it to him. He clasped it desparingly, 
as if he were in need of support. 

“Mariann, shall I — must I really die?” 

She did not hazard answering, but the 
trembling that pervaded her body and twitched 
her cold fingers spoke for her. Joachim hack- 
ed and breathed heavily. 

“Die! — Die! — Mariann, let all go out. I 
wish to speak with you,” he whispered with 
great effort. 

“The priest is here, Joachim.” 

“The priest! No — no — not he.” 

The entrance of the doctor, at whose side 
the gray-headed priest appeared, put an end 
to their talk. Joachim was about to turn his 
face away; he bit his teeth for pain at the 
slightest movement. 

“And am I to see you again and in this 
condition, Master of Eichhof ?” said the priest 
with a pitiful glance, after he had placed the 
holy Viaticum, before which the mother and 
children had devoutly sunk on their knees, be- 
tween two lighted candles, on the side table. 

“I do not wish to die — I cannot die,” groan- 
ed Joachim, “you needn’t come with that to 
me, Father.” 

“Do not excite yourself Master of Eich- 




hof,” said the priest soothingly ; not I, but the 
dear Lord Himself has come to you to sup- 
port you in this serious hour. Would you 
turn away the Redeemer, the compassionate 
Samaritan, from your bed of sickness?” 

“He struck me down. — It was the Savior’s 
face that inflicted this on me!” he murmured 
in an undertone. “O, I cannot — I cannot.” 
And with a beseeching glance at the physician : 
“Dear doctor, you shall, you must save me!” 

“If I could, I should rejoice to do so, Master 
of Eichhof. I am doing all in my power ; but 
the result is entirely in God’s hands. You 
would do well to close your account with 
heaven.” 

“Joachim,” said the aged priest, whom the 
burden of his years had bent, “when I heard 
that misfortune struck you, I was unable to 
remain in bed. On account of the stormy 
weather, the chaplain wished to come out, but 
I thought, that without your old pastor who 
first handed you the body of the Lord, you 
could not enter into eternity. You are a Chris- 
tian, Joachim, you know that when the hour 
is at hand, God calls you to Him, to take you 
to His heavenly home, why do you want to 
despair ?” 

“For me there is no heaven,” moaned the 
wounded man. “hell — only hell !” 


“Joachim, don’t alarm yourself. God’s 
mercy exceeds all bounds. You know, surely, 
for the Lord has said: “If your sins be as 
scarlet, they shall be made white as snow.” 

The unfortunate’s face was distorted, he 
gazed with a despondent expression into the 
corner, as if a dark shadow were threatening 
him there, and whispered into the ear of the 
priest, who bowed over him, praying fervently : 

“How can God forgive me, since He did 
not forgive Judas? Judas betrayed innocent 

blood, just like Judas,” he repeated in 

a loud voice, “Judas !” 

“Mother,” sobbed the weeping girl, “how 
wildly father is talking!” 

And Joseph, too, glanced in amazement at 
his father, who, quaking with fever, lay in 
a violent paroxysm and uttered cries of pain. 

“Leave me alone with the sick man,” re- 
quested Father Heitfeldt, whose countenance 
betrayed extraordinary agitation, as he pointed . 
to the door. The brother and sister followed 
the priest’s order without delay. Hand in 
hand, as if to support each other mutually in 
this serious hour, they descended the stairs. 
Mariann held the glass containing the restor- 
tive drops to her husband’s lips, carefully re- 
newed the applications to the head and breast 
and breathed a gentle : “God be with you, Jo- 


achim!” into the suffering man’s ear. Then 
she likewise left the room and tottered down 
the few steps. In the kitchen her son and 
daughter wanted to lead their mother, who 
looked more like a dead than a living person, 
to a chair by the hearth, but Mariann tore 
herself away with an almost insane look and 
threw herself down at the foot of the stair- 
way, hiding her face in her hands. 

Was she praying for Joachim? Was her 
soul wrestling with Satan for the possession of 
the unfortunate man, hanging on the edge of 
eternity by a mere thread over the terrible 
abyss ? 

Doctor Scholten glanced frequently at the 
strangely agitated woman, whose condition 
alarmed him and filled her children, as they 
observed her anxiously, with horror. Would 
He, who claimed the life of their father, 
require another sacrifice ? The physician 
shook his head thoughtfully and again looked 
at his watch. Nearly midnight! The old priest 
is using so much time, and so very little time 
was left. 

At last the chamber door opened, Mariann 
sprang up, her eyes met the priest’s, glance 
met glance, and a repressed: “Thanks be to 
God!” escaped from the lips of the agonized 
wife. 




“The master has still something to settle 
with the court. Send instantly to the county 
judge/’ said the old priest in an agitated voice. 

“Now, at this hour, your Reverence ?’* 
asked Bernard arching his shaggy brows with 
wonder at the strange request. “The boys 
just got home and must have their rest.” 

“I shall stay here tonight,” the priest inter- 
posed. “Hurry as much as you can, it is a 
matter of urgent necessity.” 

“For God’s sake, go,” Joseph urged the 
hesitating men. “Let the horses perish, if 
only my father ” 

The rest of the sentence died on his pale 
lips. The young man could not yet understand 
that his father, the very ideal of manly strength 
and vigor, would not be living within a few 
hours, stricken down by the storm like the 
oak in the yard. 

While Bernard was giving the necessary 
orders to a younger employee, the members 
of the family followed the priest to the sick- 
room, and in a few minutes the speedily 
equipped carriage was rumbling along the 
driveway. 

Joachim lay there with sunken head. His 
breath was short and painful. The physician 
carefully examined his pulse and heart action ; 
he did not move. When Mariann bent over 




him and moistened his parched lips, the woun- 
ded man opened his eyes and murmured : 

“Mariann, you knew it!” 

“I have known it, long, long already.” 

“And you will forgive me?” 

“O Joachim, why shouldn’t I forgive, now 
at this very hour when he — ?” 

She pressed the dying man’s hand and 
then knelt down beside the others to follow 
the priest’s prayers before the reception of the 
holy Viaticum. The domestics and laborers 
were gathered in an adjoining room. 

Suddenly Joachim raised his head. 

“Dear Father,” he feebly panted, “I — I 
might die, before the judge arrives. I want to 
say it now — now — that all may hear it and 
bear witness to it. I — I ” 

Mariann sprang up and put her arms 
around him as he made a painful effort to rise. 
His glance wandered from one face to another 
and, with an expression of keen agony and 
remorse, was riveted on his two children. 

“Do what your conscience bids, Joachim, 
to ease your mind,” interposed the priest in a 
sympathetic tone of voice. “It is probably 
better so.” 

“Do not curse me, my own children ; do not 
detest and scorn your unfortunate father!* — 
God has punished me for my wanton crime. — 




Death is sweet in comparison to my life during 
the past fifteen years. — I — not your uncle, my 
brother, — I slew Thomas Steiner, the tailor..” 

“Father !” exclaimed both voices at the 
same time, while in the other room a commo- 
tion arose among the domestics. 

“Father, it is not true, cannot be true. You 
speak wildly !” exclaimed his son, Joseph, near- 
ing the bed. 

The mother’s commanding look silenced 
him. Mariann was as if transformed. 

“God has forgiven, and uncle will forgive, 
and you would judge?” she asked in a severe 
tone. 

“Mother, then it is actually so?” 

Mariann placed her arms more firmly 
around her unhappy husband, whose crushed 
breast labored violently after the agitation and 
exertion, with well-nigh insufferable pain. 

“Shake hands with your father, Joseph,” 
she admonished, “and you, too, Mariann.” 

Joseph stood hesitating a moment, his head 
was in a whirl, dizzy, with wdiat he had 
heard, the inconceivable, incredible news. And 
yet he could no longer doubt. As a flash of 
lightning illumes the darkest night, so his 
father’s words had suddenly cast a glaring 
light upon the past and enabled him to under- 
stand in an instant what had hitherto seemed 


unintelligible to him. Slowly he approached. 
The daughter, who had still remained on her 
knees and hidden her face in her hands, arose 
and tottered with uncertain steps toward the 
bed. 

“Forgive me!” whispered Joachim, fixing 
his weary eyes upon them in an urgent entreaty. 

Then the children broke forth into loud 
sobbing, and placed their hands on the chilling 
right hand of their mortally wounded father. 

The sacred rites proceeded. Joachim had 
received the holy Viaticum and Extreme 
Unction and then lay still, expecting every 
breath to be his last. A profound silence per- 
vaded the chamber of death. Father Heit- 
feldt sat in the arm-chair, piously praying for 
the life rapidly ebbing away; the two children 
sat cowering at the foot of the bed, still half 
stunned and dazed by the frightful disclosure. 
The domestics stood with grave faces in the 
antechamber and ventured only by a signifi- 
cant nod or look to express their as- 
tonishment. Bernard and Cora had pressed 
each other’s hands and gazed at the contrite 
Martin with silent reproach, so that the latter 
skulked away to think it over by the light of 
the hearth-fire. He and Doctor Scholten were 
the only occupants of the spacious kitchen. 
The county physician, whom, at the time 


100 


of the shooting, it had been impossible to 
convince of Joseph’s guilt, during the inter- 
vals in which the condition of the dying man 
permitted his absence, strode up and down 
restlessly to' give vent to his agitation. What 
would County Judge Oldberg, who had long 
since been transferred to the Provincial Court, 
and President Judge von Hesky, say when they 
learned of the turn things had taken ? Joseph 
innocent, and the proud Master of Eichhof 
guilty ! 

Only the severely tried wife was calm and 
composed. She held without wavering the 
head of the dying man in her arms, providing 
every possible alleviation, and reading his ev- 
ery want on his painfully twitching lips. 

“Mariann, bring the clock nearer,” Joachim 
at one time whispered, as nothing broke the 
silence, for even the last straggling accents of 
the storm had died out after midnight, except 
the hard, monotonous noise of the great clock, 
“I cannot hear its ticking any more. — Every 
second may be my last — my last. — If the judge 
comes soon ” 

And again a leaden heaviness lay on his 
eyes and a stolid numbness possessed his brain ; 
the shadows of death hovered over him. Phy- 
sician and priest looked at each other dubi- 
ously. 


Thank God, the carriage is again rattling 
into the yard. It stopped, the sound of steps 
grew louder. The county judge, a young man 
still, appeared accompanied by his secretary, 
and with an expression of keenest pity, went 
into the death-chamber. 

“You wish to make disposal of your 
farm, Master of Eichhof ?” inquired the county 
judge, who at once saw that there was no time 
to lose here. “Your son is still a minor, under 
age, as far as I am aware.” 

Joachim shook his head in the negative. 

“It is another matter, dear Judge,” he 
groaned, “another. — I have just made it 
known.” 

“It relates to the Master’s brother,” inter- 
posed Father Heitfeldt, “the — ” 

“The convict,” muttered the judge. 

And although the word had been spoken 
so very gentle, yet the dying man overheard 
it. A loud thrilling cry pierced the silence 
of the room. 

“I — I ought to be in jail,” uttered Joachim 
forcibly. “My brother — Joseph — is innocent.” 

“The Master is feverish, delirious,” said 
the judge, inquiringly looking from one to the 
other. 

A mournful silence ensued. 

“Just you take the record of his deposition, 


Judge/’ said the physician, as he was feeling 
the dying man’s pulse. “His seconds are 
counted.” 

Very much embarrassed, the judge bade 
the secretary arrange his papers and proceeded 
with the record. Swiftly the pen glided over 
the pages, as Joachim answered the quiet in- 
quiries of the judge briefly and clearly, and 
made the necessary explanations, frequently 
interrupted by an occasional wheezing in his 
breast or by the violent weeping of his children. 

When the dying man’s deposition was com- 
pleted and read by the judge in an agitated 
voice, he reached the documents to the Master 
to sign the acknowledgment of his guilt. 

Supported by Mariann and Doctor Scholten 
Joachim raised himself up, but the benumbed 
right hand refused its service and the pen fell 
out of his powerless hand. 

“Just make three crosses, Master of Eich- 
hof,” said the judge, replacing the pen between 
his fingers. 

By a superhuman effort, and only by the 
force of his iron will, which had immemorially 
been a heritage of his family, Joachim made 
the fatal marks and then sank back into his 
pillow exhausted. His limbs twitched and cold 
perspiration glistened on his brow. The last 


combat on the verge of life and death had 
begun. 

The physician escorted the judge out of 
the room in silence ; the priest alone remaining 
there with the family. All were kneeling about 
the bed to join in the prayers for the departing 
soul. But the voice of the praying priest trem- 
bled, as it had never trembled before under like 
circumstances. And unknown to him, bright 
tears trickled down his lean cheeks, when pres- 
ently a kindly light shone on Joachim’s coun- 
tenance and the departing one murmured in a 
weak voice: 

“Do you still remember, Joseph, the nuts — 
the brown nuts at the border hedge? — The 
sun is shining — come quickly. — I’ll take your 
hand and hold you. — Ah, Joseph !” 

Extinguished and forgotten, all that had 
hung so dark and dreadful over their lives and 
placed a chasm between them, extinguished and 
forgotten, all but the bright gleams of a happy 
childhood ! 

The cocks had not yet crowed twice, when 
the powerful frame of the quietly breathing 
man was convulsed with spasms. The iron 
constitution of this scion of a vigorous Saxon 
stock braced itself against the hand of Death, 
who had been wrestling for that life for hours, 

a brother’s sacrifice 13 




and never let go his victim. A sallow glim- 
mer overspread the distorted face, the limbs 
relaxed, and a last rattling — a final agonizing 
sob and Joachim’s struggles were over. 

The storm that had menaced the Oak Farm 
for fifteen years had finally struck it with a 
blighting bolt. Out in the yard stood the bro- 
ken stump of the most beautiful oak, its sym- 
metrical crown a waste heap of shattered 
boughs and branches beside it, and in the house 
on his bier lay its proud owner silent and rigid, 
a cold corpse. 




Chapter XIV. 

In the invalid department of the peniten- 
tiary, a pale man was reclining on the pillows 
of an armchair moved near the window. His 
ghastly pallor was still more enhanced by the 
glowing-red spots on his sunken cheeks — 
intensified by the hectic flush, and by the un- 
natural brightness of his large blue eyes. His 
emaciated hands lay folded on his lap, while 
his face bore an expression of deep melan- 
choly as he looked fixedly upon the drifting 
snow-flakes. A white winding-sheet was just 
then covering the earth and the moaning winds 
seemed to chant a melancholy dirge over na- 
ture’s solemn bier. 

“A real All-souls day,” soliloquized the in- 
valid. “Next year the snow will fall upon my 
grave.” 

At that very hour the director of the peni- 
tentiary was moving to and fro in his official 
chamber, taking vast strides. 

“It is incredible, incomprehensible,” he said 
to himself and glanced at a sheet of paper ex- 
posed on his table. 

“If he would only come! I can hardly bear 
it any longer.” 

There was a knock at the door. The direc- 




tor opened it wide and exclaimed in a tone of 
relief as he saw the object of his impatience: 

“Thank God that you are here at last! 
Reverend Rather!” 

“What is it, Mr. Director,” inquired the 
chaplain, stepping in, “a serious case of ill- 
ness ?” 

“Something unexpected, unheard-of, some- 
thing that never happened in my experience.” 

“The Emperor’s pardon for Joseph has ar- 
rived?” the aged priest interposed with a joy- 
ful light beaming in his eyes. 

“Alas, the pardon, if it were only that! 
No, dear Father, something entirely different, 
something that completely perplexes me and 
renders me distrustful of my own and all oth- 
er men’s senses. Joseph is innocent : has been 
an innocent victim for all these years! Do 
you understand, do you comprehend this, dear 
Father?” 

The priest grew pale. If to him, the Lord’s 
servant, who was enabled to peer more deeply 
into his patient’s soul than any other human 
eye, it had long since ceased to be a secret 
that only an unfortunate chain of circumstan- 
ces had accumulated suspicion against Joseph 
and induced him to be silent, this sudden pub- 
licity nevertheless thrilled him to the innermost 
recesses of his heart. 


“But how, how did his innocence so un- 
expectedly come to light after all these long 
years?” he stammered, involuntarily seeking a 
support. 

“A special delivery letter from County 
Judge Herbrecht, written by the latter while 
still agitated during the course of the night, 
and nothing less than a documentary instru- 
ment substantiating the innocence of the pris- 
oner with absolute certainty arrived about an 
hour ago and put me completely beside myself. 
Here, read it yourself !” 

The priest took the paper handed him ; the 
letters danced before his eyes, as he attempted 
to read and it was some time before he could 
decipher the writing and grasp the sense, of 
the words. 

“His brother !” he exclaimed in amazement, 
and the lengthy and circumstantial statement 
dropped from his nervous hands. “His own 
brother !” 

“Yes,” nodded the director, who had re- 
sumed his walk and restlessly traversed the 
chamber, “yes, his own natural brother. The 
proud Master of Eichof, who rode through 
the country, so haughtily as if he defied the 
whole world, for fifteen years let his inno- 
cent brother suffer the punishment of his own 
crime. Now he is dead; he lost his life in 


19 » 


a terrible manner, and for the dead who ap- 
pear before a higher Judge, human justice is 
silent; but it is too terrible, too attrocious to 
have been innocent and imprisoned for fifteen 
years. One has to know all the misery con- 
cealed within these walls, like you and I do, 
in order to understand even to some extent 
the serious significance of these words. Fif- 
teen years ! Now also understand why the 
Master of the Oak Farm during al this end- 
lessly long time did not once call on him, and 
never even sent one of his children to visit 
the prisoner. I thought the proud scion of 
Eichhof, knowing that one of his own blood 
was behind the iron bars of the penitentiary, 
would not be able to reconcile himself to it 
without another struggle; but that it was his 
bad conscience, the haunting specter of his own 
crime, that kept him away, that, so help me 
God, I did not believe. How can the world 
compensate the unfortunate innocent man for 
the pains he endured, the hard labor, and the 
lost lifer 

“You forget the consciousness of inno- 
cence, Mr. Director,” eagerly interrupted the 
priest. “Had the innocent man wished to 
speak, it would certainly not have been very 
difficult for him to prove the truth of his de- 
claration. The cowardice of the master of the 


199 




Oak Farm — may God be a merciful Judge to 
the poor man ! — would certainly have shrunk 
from facing the statement of the accused and 
seeking cover under falsehood or even per- 
jury. But how is it, Mr. Director, are you not 
going to inform Joseph that the truth has come 
to light ?” 

“Certainly, Reverend Father, for that very 
purpose I have sent for you, indeed. And even 
though the matter has not been quite regularly 
introduced and has to be proceeded with in due 
course of law, in order to be legally valid, there 
shall, nevertheless, as far as it depends upon 
me and my authority, not a shadow of dishonor 
attach to the name of our brave man even for 
an instant longer. ’Tis a pity that his life can 
not be safed.” 

“Yes, ’tis a pity,” assented the priest to the 
director as he was hurriedly stepping out, “and 
yet — the man has acted and demeaned himself 
like a hero ; he is dying as the result of a second 
heroic deed; I hardly know whether he is to 
be pitied.” 

The two men then pursued their way 
to the invalid department of the penitentiary, 
in silence. They were too deeply moved, too in- 
tensely affected with their own lofty sentiments 
to be able to speak. As if by agreement, both 
stopped and hesitated at the door, so that the 


200 


expectant warden turned around and looked at 
them with surprise. The director fetched a 
deep breath and passed his hand over his 
furrowed brow. 

“Do you believe, Reverend Father,” he 
said, “that I am obliged to muster up courage 
for what is before me ? that it is well-nigh 
more difficult for me to announce to a guiltless 
one the proof of his innocence than to bear 
the sentence of death to a guilty one?” 

The priest nodded. His heart was likewise 
fluttering with anxiety. 

“To have been locked up for fifteen years 
within these walls ! To have been deprived of 
all happiness for fifteen years, and forgone all 
pleasure ! The very thought sickens me. It 
seems to me as if I had a share in the crime 
that caused his imprisonment here.” 

With a resolute purpose the director then 
opened the door fully, which the overseer had 
already noiselessly unlatched. 

“Good day, Master Joseph. How do you 
do, today?” the old gentleman inquired as he 
approached the ill man. 

Joseph raised his head, perplexed. “Master 
Joseph !” How long was it since he had last 
heard his name? For wasn’t he No. 46, a fig- 
ure, nothing more? 

A slight tremor came over him. A shudder, 


201 

like the sensation of death’s approach rose 
slowly up from his heart and obscured his eyes. 
In vain he endeavored to rise from his chair, 
sinking feebly back again on his seat, and only 
gazed at his visitors with a help-imploring 
glance. Even his stolid companions pricked 
up their ears with wonder. This visit, this 
address must mean something special. 

“Just calmly keep your place,” the director 
continued, his hand likewise trembling, as he 
placed it on the sick man’s shoulder. “The 
Reverend Father and I have come here, to — ” 

His own great agitation choked him in the 
midst of his speech. 

“O, Mr. Director, you refer to the pardon,” 
sighed Joseph. “The Emperor has refused the 
petition and you don’t wish to tell me so direct- 
ly. But as I never built any hopes on it, you 
will not blight any hopes of mine,” he added 
with a gentle smile. “Only let me die here in 
peace. I know that it is death, that” — he 
pointed to his breast — “that is gnawing away 
within there.” 

An inarticulate cry of pain came from 
Slashing Jim, who lay wounded on a couch 
near by, but no one noted it at that moment. 
The entire attention of the chaplain and the 
director was concentrated upon the sick man 
by the window. 


202 ^ 


“Do not speak thus, my dear friend,” said 
the priest. “God has other means and ways 
to give you freedom once more, than by an act 
of grace on the part of His Majesty.” 

A glowing flush overspread the sick man’s 
face, to give place as quickly to a deathly 
paleness. 

“Dear Father, you do not want to say — ” 

“Joseph, fifteen years ago you were sen- 
tenced to lifelong imprisonment for murder. 
At the time you did not admit the deed, but 
could not or would not inform on any other 
one as guilty of the crime,” the priest con- 
tinued. 

It took some minutes before Joseph had 
composed himself from the excitement and 
answered in a tremulous voice: 

“Reverend Father, I did, at that time, not 
confess guilt because I had not committed any 
criminal act and could swear before God and 
man that no blood had stained my hands. What 
I said fifteen years ago that I can simply re- 
peat now. But as they accused me of lying 
at that time, why should they now, after such 
a long time, put any faith in my words?” 

“Nevertheless it is possible,” interposed the 
director hurriedly, especially if you know who 
committed the deed.” 

“And if I knew it, how should I now. 




since during filteen years the burden of the 
crime lay on me, and not a hand, not a lip 
moved for my release, — why should I now on 

the brink of the grave part my lips to 

He hid his face in his hands and after a short 
interval continued in a' pleading manner : “The 
past is past ! Don’t torture me now with ques- 
tions concerning guilt and innocence, which 
only break my heart and are entirely useless.” 

“Then you do not wish to show your in- 
nocence openly, Master Joseph,” — the repeated 
and strikingly emphasized “Master,” perplexed 
Joseph with anxiety — “so as not to put the 
blame upon another? But how if a mightier 
one took an interest in you? God does not 
permit that innocence be oppressed and mock- 
ed forever. It took fifteen years to crush a 
hard human heart, and at last it became tender 
and bowed before the majesty of truth. Com- 
pose yourself my poor friend” — The old gen- 
tleman’s voice faltered with emotion, his eyes 
were filled with tears, while the priest took 
both the patient’s hands in his, — “compose 
yourself to hear of something great, wonder- 
ful, even though painful. Your brother, the 
Master of Eichhof is no more. Reconciled 
with God and mankind he passed into eternity, 
after he had confessed his guilt before the 




spiritual, as well as the worldly, authorities, 
and made your innocence known to the world.” 

A momentary hush prevailed in the room. 
There was only a deep sigh from Joseph and 
audible sobbing from Slashing Jim to inter- 
rupt the heavy silence. 

“O my God,” the sick man finally mut- 
tered, “so then, I have suffered all in vain! 
then the shame and disgrace of my brother 
will yet be visited upon Mariann and the 
children!” 

“No, indeed, my friend, no indeed!” said 
the priest soothingly. “Would you have pre- 
ferred that the deceased had passed away in all 
his sins and with such a deed — and burdened 
with such a lie, have appeared before the 
tribunal of the eternal Judge? No, thank 
God for the grace that gave the unfortunate 
man time and opportunity to make atone- 
ment and at the same time disclosed your in- 
nocence in the full light of day.” 

The consoling words and manner of the 
priest and the director were finally successful 
in calming the poor man, agitated as he was 
to the innermost recesses of his soul, and, 
after the Sister of Charity, who had been 
called there, had handed him a glass of wine, 
they were enabled to gather from him the com- 
plete details of that fatal evening. 




“I shall this very day go to the president 
of the provincial court,” the director interjected 
with impatient zeal, “and move for the im- 
mediate revision of the legal proceedings. If 
it were in my power you should leave the peni- 
tentiary this very hour.” 

“Just let me remain here, Mr. Director. 
Of what use is liberty to me? I would not 
know any more what to do with it,” and Jo- 
seph smiled sadly. 

“You are ill now, unnerved and over- 
whelmed by what has happened, and still in- 
capable to understand the change of your lot, 
my dear Joseph, but soon there shall be other 
days that will make you rejoice to be a free 
man once more.” 

Joseph shook his head mournfully. 

“You shall leave this uncongenial room at 
once,” continued the director, having mean- 
while surveyed the sparing equipment of the 
infirmary. “The spare room of my own res- 
idence is placed at your disposal and in your 
present condition will afford you every com- 
fort and convenience desirable.” 

“I have everything that I wish Mr. Direc- 
tor,” answered Joseph, likewise taking in, at 
one rapid glance, the bare walls, the coarse 
beds, Slashing Jim’s shaggy head, and his own 
rough, discolored convict’s uniform. “Let me 




stay here, Mr. Director, grant me time to com- 
pose myself and muse awhile on my brother’s 
death and his confession, before I give thought 
to anything else.” 

“Joseph is right,” assented the priest. A 
sudden change might injure his feeble health. 
Even here many things may be done for his re- 
lief and comfort.” 

“Indeed,” exclaimed the director, “every- 
thing that is within our power. In the next 
room a bed has been vacated by the death of 
the old basket-maker, and No. 68 may at once 
be moved over there. Then you will at least 
have the room to yourself.” 

“I should rather retain my comrade, Mr. 
Director, if you would kindly permit it. I am 
afraid to be alone.” 

“Very well, just as you wish, Joseph. Good- 
bye, then, till we meet again, tomorrow, my 
dear friend. And the bottle of port which I 
shall immediately send over to you, you’ll 
drink to my health, won’t you, and you’ll not 
bear me any grudge for this unhappy — ” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Director,” Joseph 
interrupted him, “you have always been just. 
That you were unable to believe in the truth 
of my plea was due to the circumstances.” 

Shaking hands ardently and with repeated 
assurances of their highest respect and esteem, 




the two visitors left the room. Joseph looked 
after them with mingled feelings of gratitude, 
sorrow, and astonishment and then sank back 
into his armchair, exhausted. He sat there 
motionless for a long time with his eyes closed ; 
he did not observe the Sister of Mercy passing 
to and fro, nor the servant who brought the 
promised wine and with audible hawking and 
hemming set it on the table, while Slashing 
Jim was restlessly tossing about in his bed. 
Through the window the evening began to 
gloom, the snow pattered on the panes, the 
lamp was lighted by the nursing Sister — but 
Joseph heeded nothing. 

Jim was becoming impatient at the gloom 
and silence. 

“Hey comrade !” he shouted good-natured- 
ly, “are you dead?” 

Joseph roused himself with difficulty and 
looked up inquiringly. 

“Don’t take it amiss that a rogue like me 
calls you comrade. But I shall no longer call 
you No. 4 6 and your other name is not quite 
handy for me yet. So then, comrade, will you 
listen to me?” 

“Of course,” answered Joseph, rising and 
slowly tottering toward the sick man’s couch. 

“Give me your hand, comrade, that is, if 
you do not fear the touch of mine.” 


208 




Joseph extended his right hand to him in 
silence. 

“I have always said that you were too good 
to be here and that only the stupid prejudice 
of these headstrong, pedantic lawyers had got 
you into the penitentiary. But you are a fine 
fellow, a trump, and if I have before hated 
all fair and just people as dunces and hypo- 
crites, I’ll take off my hat to you now. I don’t 
know what I would give if I could undo that 
blundering stab and see you whole and sound 
again.” 

“Don’t mention it any more,” protested 
Joseph, “it had to come so.” 

“And what I wanted to say to you besides,” 
continued the other with a cynical smile, “I 
too sowed th^ seeds of death in this escapade 
upon the damp moor of the Holland frontiers 
when the infernal policemen were continually 
at our heels. I feel it, that the scythe-man, 
Death, has got a hard grip on my neck too, I 
can feel his cold hand upon me. It presses 
on my chest and tugs and twitches through 
my bones, until — well yes, until the end is 
here. Formerly I used to think it would make 
no difference where and how I should wind up 
at last, for I did not believe in God or devil, 
neither in heaven nor hell, but now, comrade. -- 
There must really be something in your faith, 


otherwise you could not have endured the life 
in the penitentiary, or at least the Intercourse 
with me and my rough sort. Our company 
is like the plague that infects all that get near 
it, poisons all that breathe the same air. 
That you were able to resist it beats my wit. 
You may therefore tell the priest tomorrow to 
call on me. I have turned my back so often 
on the man when he wished to speak with me, 
that naturally he would not again attempt it. 
And now repeat the Our Father. I hardly 
believe that I can recite it any more/’ 

With amazement the Sister, bringing in the 
evening repast, listened to the sick man lead- 
ing the prayer, while the rough, squeaky voice 
of Jim, from whom till now all remonstrances 
and persuasions had recoiled powerless, as if 
with interior resistance and yet, as if con- 
strained by a high power, repeating the sacred 
words. 

Was there consummated here, at the thres- 
hold of death, a change of life? Was a poor 
and forlorn murderer, even in the last hour, 
finding his way back from the gates of hell 
to the portals of paradise? 


A brother’s sacrifice 


14 


210 ^ 


Chapter XV. 

The legal proceedings against Joseph were 
taken up for revision at the next session of the 
jury trials. Meanwhile, through the joint 
efforts of the director and the chaplain every 
conceivable comfort and by the world generous 
recognition and admiration were bestowed 
upon him. The public press had taken up the 
matter and extended the praise of the noble- 
minded peasant far beyond the limits of his 
home province. If the physician had not pro- 
hibited it by the strictest orders, the onrush 
of visiting friends and strangers, of high and 
low degree, would have pressed the brave 
man’s hand and tried to compensate him for 
his hardships by their admiring sympathy. But 
the terrible agitation that succeeded the first 
disclosure, the repeated hemorrhages and the 
continuous fever rendered extreme repose 
necessary. Even Joseph Eichhof, his neph- 
ew, who soon after his father’s interment had 
driven to town with his sister’s betrothed and 
had rapped at the gates of the penitentiary, 
was refused admittance. The medical adviser 
wanted to separate Joseph from Jim, but 
Joseph decisively opposed the idea. 

“Oh, no, dear doctor, don’t do that. Do 


not separate me from my only companion. I 
am used to the poor man arid he to me. 1 
would really miss him very much.” 

And though the physician persisted for 
awhile, he had to yield to Joseph’s pleading 
and to the unfortunate criminal’s despair, who 
clung to Joseph with the same deadly fear as 
a drowning man to his rescuer. 

They accordingly remained together, these 
two very different characters, destined soon to 
be companions in death, — the one, of spotless 
character from his childhood, a devout, faith- 
ful soul, a childlike, believing heart, still more 
ennobled, refined, and spiritualized by a severe 
destiny; the other, even in his tenderest youth 
besmirched with the hideous taint of sin, sink- 
ing step by step downward, after every dis- 
charge from the penitentiary worse and more 
malicious, a plague to human society — and now 
the two united in one faith and one hope. 

The penitentiary chaplain exerted himself 
faithfully to bend this unrestrained nature that 
scarcely yet retained a proper distinction be- 
tween good and evil, that only knew and 
recognized the rude principle of self-help and 
defense, and render it accessible to the light of 
heaven. Without Joseph’s assistance it would 
scarcely have been possible to succeed ; but the 
encouragement and still more the pious suffer- 




er’s example, whose life’s thread his ruthless 
hand had cut, had a gentle mastery over this 
rude heart even when in his fierce attacks of 
despair Jim refused to see the “ranting par- 
son” and preferred going straightway to hell 
than to listen to his intolerable preaching any 
longer. 

Nevertheless the grace of God had not in 
vain visited this hardened heart. Holding the 
hand of his utterly unlike companion in his, 
with his eyes steadfastly fixed upon Joseph’s 
face and with his benumbed lips stammeringly 
repeating the prayer which the priest had 
taught him, Jim, after a contrite general con- 
fession and a reverent reception of the holy 
Viaticum, passed away. It was but a few days 
before the session of the court. 

When they had carried the corpse from the 
room, Joseph with sad eyes gazed on the empty 
bed in the corner. The unkempt head and 
squeaking voice of the criminal had become a 
sort of necessity to him in the long and lone- 
some hours of his sickness. 

“How soon shall I follow him?” he asked 
himself as he looked up to the gleaming winter 
skies, through which there seemed to glide a 
presentiment of coming spring. 

“Mr. Eichhof, would you not like to 
see a visitor?” inquired a Sister who had just 




entered the room. “The doctor has given 
permission, as the young man has been here so 
often during your illness to inquire about you.” 

“My nephew? Let him enter, Sister.” 

Deeply moved, Joseph Eichhof entered the 
room of his uncle, whom he had not seen since 
he was a child, — whose name had not been 
allowed to be mentioned at home until now 
when it was in everybody’s mouth as the man 
who had borne and atoned for his father’s 
crime. For a few moments they gazed at each 
other in silence. 

“So you are Joseph?” the sick man finally 
said. “I remember you as a little boy of 
five, and now you are tall and strong — a gen- 
uine Eichhof. I can hardly believe you are 
the same boy. Poor boy!” he continued after 
a short pause, “ it must have been hard enough 
for you to have had such a grievous accusation 
brought against your uncle, though the con- 
fession of your father — ” 

“O, my dear uncle,” interrupted Joseph 
passionately, “don’t say that. My father only 
did what was right. Would to God he had 
sooner admitted his guilt, then you would not 
have had to suffer so long in prison for his 
crime. Who can give back to you those lost 
years? Who can atone for your sufferings?” 

“I found consolation”, the uncle replied, 




“in the thought that my misfortune would 
take the shame from you and your mother and 
sister, and now it has all been in vain.” 

“That reminds me of something,” the youth 
said. “You know little Mariann who used to 
cling to your knees, wanted to give up her 
betrothed after father’s death. But his old 
father, hitting the table with his mighty fist, 
said: ‘God forbid; although the one brother — 
God pardon his hard words against my father 
— was a coward, the generous love of the oth- 
er has made up for it a hundred-fold.’ Oh it 
is all so sad ! But you have pardoned him, dear 
uncle, have you not?” 

“Yes, my boy, I have pardoned him from 
the bottom of my heart, as surely as I hope for 
pardon when I shall appear soon before the 
judgment-seat of Almighty God.” 

“You must not speak so, uncle. You 
will not die. Now that you have left that 
dreadful prison you will soon be well. Every- 
thing is ready for your reception at the Oak 
Farm.” 

“Not the Oak Farm; I shall go to my own 
little cottage home.” 

“The cottage has been rented since 
old auntie became childish and moved to the 
Oak Farm,” Joseph said hesitatingly, ‘and to 
get the tenants to give it up now, in the heart 




of winter, would be difficult. But of course 
if you insist, mother is ready to lodge the 
renters at the Oak Farm. Everything will be 
done according to your wishes.” 

The patient shook his head musingly. 
What a space of time stretched between the 
days when he, as a young man, had for the last 
time rested beneath the roof of the Oak Farm ! 
What sweet hopes, what bitter disappoint- 
ments, what cruelly-long sufferings ! And now 
he was to reurn there before entering his last 
resting-place. 

“Be it so, then,” he said suddenly with a 
deep sigh, as he clasped his nephew’s strong 
hand with his own emaciated right. “If 
your mother thinks best, I will come. How 
does your mother, Joseph?” 

“Well, uncle,” Joseph replied confidential- 
ly, “there is something strange about mother, 
and has been for years. It has always seemed 
as though a heavy burden had weighed upon 
her and prevented her from breathing freely, 
and her eyes were ever gazing into space. Now 
I know that it was because she had surmised 
my father’s guilt and feared lest a word should 
escape her that would endanger him. Since 
he has confessed his crime and died penitent, 
she is completely changed. She cries when 
father’s name is mentioned; but you can see 




that the burden has been taken from her soul, 
her gait is lighter, and the shadows have gone 
from her face, only — ” 

“Only, what ?” urged his uncle. 

“Only, Dr. Scholten says, in spite of the 
happy change, the mental excitement has been 
almost too great, and she needs perfect rest. 
And think of it, uncle, mother, who would 
never rest, who always had to work, now often 
sits by the fire and allows Cora and the serv- 
ants to do the work alone. Can you imagine 
mother in that condition?” 

A faint smile played over the pale features 
of the patient. He knew well this restless 
desire for work — that the hand might be em- 
ployed that the heart might not cry out in 
its agony. Mariann had borne her burden 
from dawn to dusk to drown that voice cry- 
ing to heaven for justice and mercy together. 
Now that her husband was dead and 
the worry taken from her, her energy 
seemed broken, her vital power shaken 
through the incessant struggle with the hardest 
of all human fates. The elder man under- 
stood what to the younger was a mystery. 

“Rest, yes, rest,” he sighed with a longing 
look of his burning eyes, — “rest for all of us !” 


The day had at last come, which was to 
bring the final decision in this melancholy af- 
fair. The large court-room was overcrowded 
long before the time set for the hearing. Al- 
though fifteen years had elapsed since, on this 
spot, an innocent man had been robbed of liber- 
ty and honor, the details of the case were 
fresh in the memories of many who had out 
of curiosity or sympathy gathered that day to 
hear the same man declared innocent. 

When the jury had taken their places and 
the sick man, leaning on the shoulder of the 
officer whose life he had saved at the cost of 
his own, entered the room, there was for a 
moment breathless quiet. They saw a man 
pale, haggard, with the stamp of death upon 
his brow and yet, one who bore the look of in- 
nocence. All present were ready to bow be- 
fore such strength of soul and a low murmur 
of satisfaction and surprise passed through the 
room. 

The president of the jury, German, who 
fifteen years ago had been engaged in the ex- 
amination of the prisoner, and who had in vain 
tried to solve the psychological riddle in the 
accused man’s conduct, made no attempt to 
hush the outbreaks of enthusiasm on the part 
of the audience, as their “hurrahs” resounded 
on every side. 




Joseph, exhausted by the exertion of com- 
ing to the court, sank into a chair, tears ran 
down his cheeks, and it was only by an effort 
that he was able to answer the questions of the 
president. After the usual formalities had been 
complied with, the jurors retired for consulta- 
tion. A few minutes later, Count von Hoch- 
stetter, who at the first trial had pleaded for 
the accused, now solemnly declared Joseph 
Eichhof free of all suspicion of the crime for 
which he had been sentenced to prison. When 
the people heard this, their enthusiasm knew 
no bounds. It was only with difficulty that 
the president could make himself heard. 

“I think/’ he said, “I am safe in saying that 
this is the happiest day of my life. Very rare- 
ly does it happen that the court is bound to 
recognize and rectify an error committed 
through human insufficiency. Today it is given 
to me to admit such an injustice and give back 
to an innocently condemned man his lost honor, 
and to restore to him all his civic rights. By 
one word he could, fifteen years ago, have 
freed himself from every shade of suspicion. 
This word he did not utter, out of love for his 
brother and his family. He was condemned to 
lifelong imprisonment. I need not tell you 
what that means. The word of a dying man 
has cleared the mystery and freed him from 


all suspicion. Would to God we could take 
away from him the fifteen years of prison life, 
borne with all patience, and ” 

The last words of the president died away 
in the enthusiastic shouts of the people. The 
president hurried over to Joseph, on whom all 
eyes were now directed in admiration, warmly 
shook hands with him and led him out to the 
carriage which was waiting for him. 

The railroad trip was soon ended. At the 
last station old Bernard was waiting with the 
new carriage from the Oak Farm, which the 
late master had bought for the approaching 
marriage of his daughter. 

The carriage rolled over the frozen roads. 
There is the forest with the one linden tree 
towering above the ruins of the cross which 
had not been reerected after the memorable 
storm ; while beyond stretches the long roof of 
the farmhouse, and yonder is seen the small 
gable of the cottage. 

At the gate of the avenue stood the daugh- 
ter of the house with her betrothed and old 
Auntie, waiting for the visitor. 

Joseph gazed into the tear-dimmed eyes of 
his niece, perplexed and mute. “I am Mariann, 
uncle Joseph, your little Mariann, don’t you 
know me?” she said as she stretched out her 
hands in greeting. 


“O yes, my little Mariann,” said Joseph, 
“the years slipped away from me and I thought 
you were your mother. You are so like her.” 

The anxious mother, who had been wait- 
ing in the kitchen, drew back in fright at sight 
of the pale, miserable, prematurely-aged man. 
She had not known he was so far gone. And 
all this for her husband’s crime! The poor 
woman pressed her hands over her heart to 
keep from screaming aloud. 

“Welcome home, Joseph,” she finally man- 
aged to say in a faint voice, mechanically wip- 
ing off the armchair near the hearth. 

“I have come home to die, Mariann,” mur- 
mured Joseph, falling heavily on the chair and 
closing his eyes. 

Yes, he had come home to die. For some 
weeks the little flame of life burned feebly, 
sometimes flickering up to a little brilliancy, 
when his nephew and niece sat at his bed and 
chatted of their hopes and plans, or when their 
mother now and then would gently lay her 
hand on his fevered brow and urge him to 
eat something she had prepared. 

The specter which for so many years had 
stood gaunt and threatening at the hearth of 
the Oak Farm was now banished, and in its 
stead was the mild and resigned face of the 



pious sufferer who lay upon his pillows listen- 
ing to the chatter of the children. 

When the spring winds breathed over the 
heather and the first golden leaves of the oaks 
burst from their brownish buds, when at the 
edge of the forest anemones and primroses 
blossomed and the green branches of the 
linden-tree bent over the newly erected cross, 
Joseph Eichhof breathed his last. 

Mariann with her two children, old aunt 
Meg -and Cora surrounded his bed. The 
golden glimmer of the morning sun fell 
through the half opened window, flooding the 
room with light and illuming the face of the 
dying man. 

“Bury me by the side of Joachim,” he 
whispered, starting from his lethargy and 
looking with surprised eyes on the tear-stained 
faces beside him. “Life has separated us, 
death shall unite us, in God there is rest — 
eternal rest. — O Mariann, do you remember 
the forget-me-nots, — near the pond ? Last 
year when I received that deadly blow I saw 
them again. I am glad to die. Don’t weep 
for me. Peace — peace!” 

Peace was the last word he spoke, and 
peace was the precious heritage he left to the 
Oak Farm and its inmates. The dark cloud 




which for fifteen years had lowered upon the 
farm was lifted. 

* * * 

The stone cross again stands by the hedge- 
row as a sign of atonement, reconciliation, and 
peace, and undisturbed peace reigns under the 
roof of the old homestead. Joseph’s name is 
held in reverence by the household and the 
people of the country roundabout. Scarcely 
a day passes on which Mariann, now a mild- 
faced matron, does not speak to her grand- 
children of the uncle who rests in the cemetery 
by the side of their grandfather, and her large 
brown eyes swim in tears, and a happy smile 
follows when the little children exclaim in 
chorus, “Good Uncle Joseph !” 























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